Don't Expect Any Miracles
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: While hunting alone, Sam is hit with a curse. Dean knows that he should be completely focused on breaking it, but he can't help but notice what it's doing to his younger brother's body. And how that makes him feel. Request. Set in season one. WARNING: Stuffing, force-feeding, weight gain, and Wincest. Don't read if you don't like any of that.


**So you'll all be happy to know that I am, indeed, alive (if drowning under a pile of schoolwork), and still working on requests.**

**This was a request from NarrowmindedWriter.**

**She wanted a weight gain story involving Wincest, set in the first season, with Sam acquiring a curse that forced him to eat and gain weight and Dean unable to stop himself from being turned on by that. She also specified that a demon should be involved in several (extremely fun to write) scenes that she outlined to me. And...I feel terrible, because I took this request over a month ago and said that I would probably get it done over break, but it never happened. If it's any consolation, it's really, really long now. I really got carried away with this one, because I loved the concept so much, and wanted to do it justice.**

**But, unfortunately, I don't know anything about New England...so sorry if I screwed up.**

**WARNING: Contains weight gain, stuffing, force feeding, belly worship, Wincest (not terribly explicit Wincest, but still), bastardization of canon - demons can now, apparently, heal superficial wounds - and gratuitous amounts of Sam-angst. If any of that bothers you, you have been sufficiently warned, seeing as I laid this out both here and in the description.**

**Unfortunately, requests are currently closed. I want to finish the massive pile that I already have before taking on any others.**

* * *

Dean had no idea what he was talking about.

That was Sam's firm belief, and had been his mantra for the past couple of days, ever since he walked out of the hotel room in Montrose and hitched the first ride he could get. It was what kept him going, kept that white flame of anger burning down in his stomach. It gave him the courage to get his own crappy motel room with one bed, and to drink at a bar without his brother hovering close by like a suspicious girlfriend, and to interrogate the self-proclaimed psychic who had been arrested for "causing a scene" at the local museum. She hadn't "liked the aura" of one exhibit and was convinced that the artifact in it was cursed. With all of that accomplished, it was obvious to Sam that the mantra was correct - he _could _last more than ten minutes hunting on his own. Contrary to Dean's apparent opinion.

Dean didn't know him.

That was another good, motivating thought. No, a fact. The two of them were just as different as day and night - how could he really assume that he could read Sam like a book? He hadn't "gone soft" just because he spent two years at college and passed the time reading and studying and making friends, rather than running down his worst nightmares armed with nothing but a machete. He didn't need a babysitter, or a mentor to "ease him back into the life." Especially not if that mentor was Dean. They'd been hunting side-by-side for months! Hadn't he proven himself a hundred times over? None of that had been Dean's influence, going by the fact that he was seven states away and Sam had still managed to break into the museum, after hours, without setting off a single alarm. He'd even found the control box for the building's system, checked it, and nodded in satisfaction at the proof that he was home free.

He didn't need Dean.

The psychic (despite being annoyingly "mystical" and having hair that was a few shades too bright for her to be a natural redhead, she was the real deal: she'd waved off his FBI cover and bluntly addressed him by his full, real name) had given him directions to the exhibit, which he was religiously following in the shadowy corridors of the museum, and described the artifact to him. A small fetish, carved out of a dark, oiled wood several hundred years ago by some obscure cult in Mauritania. She didn't know what was wrong with it, only that something was, and that Sam shouldn't - under any circumstances - touch it. Which was why he was wearing thick gloves. He would get this thing all on his own, burn it out in the middle of nowhere, and seal the ashes in a hex box he'd made himself. He was a perfectly-capable solo hunter.

He was half-tempted to rub this hunt in Dean's face, once he'd successfully completed it. Without him. But he wasn't going to seek him out for any reason, or even contact him. He knew that he was probably still in Montrose, waiting for Sam to come crawling back, desperate for his big brother's help just like always. It wouldn't kill either of them for Dean to suck it up and make the first move.

Sam had the gloves. Clean boots. Dark clothes, a handgun in the waistband of his jeans, and a flashlight. He was prepared and things were going well, and he allowed himself a tiny smile when he swung the beam of his flashlight up and saw the "Treasures of West Africa" sign hanging overhead. He'd be in and out in, probably, under half an hour. Much faster (he was sure) than he would have gone if Dean had been with him.

He moved cautiously through the glass cases and mannequin-filled exhibits that dotted the huge room. He guessed that the museum probably reserved this pace for the traveling collections that came to them every couple of months or so. Carefully looking over the gatherings of beads, pottery, and stone spearheads, some unearthed after being buried for decades and others made fairly recently, Sam kept a sharp eye out for the specific artifact that had been described to him. He'd expected it to be in a case with a lot of other items, unobtrusive and difficult to spot. But, no, it was displayed proudly in his own little glass box, which he saw when he came around the corner of an outcropping of fake rocks that was sheltering a few fake tribesmen. He raised an eyebrow. This was almost too easy. Gift horses and mouths and all that, but he couldn't stop his guard from going up. Just a little bit.

The carving was about six inches tall, and exactly how the psychic had described it. The form looked humanoid, but it was faceless, and he couldn't put a gender to it, either. The only real defining detail that it had was the obese shape it'd been carved into. Sam didn't feel anything evil or malevolent coming from it, but, then again, he'd never been anything approaching sensitive. With a shrug, he crouched in front of the pedestal that the figure and its box rested on, then pulled a set of lock-picking tools (a gift from Dean - he'd have to find a new set soon) from the pocket of his jeans.

The lock gave way relatively easily after just a few minutes of him poking around inside it. He paused for a second before opening the door and pulling the figure out, not sure if it was alarmed or not. But this was a small-town museum, and the initial alarm system that he'd slipped past had looked pretty expensive, when he'd opened the control box. It was doubtful that anything else was wired. So he reached a gloved hand in, lifted the carving out - it was surprisingly heavy - and stood up. He aimed the beam of his flashlight down at the small plaque that was attached to its pedestal, expecting a small blurb about the figure's history and what it represented. He wanted to know more about it. For example, what the curse that he had to believe was on it might be.

Unfortunately, it didn't really tell him anything that he didn't already know. Sam supposed that he really didn't need to know all that much about it in order to destroy it, but, still, it was a little disappointing and left him slightly frustrated. He wasn't quite sure why. With a sigh, he turned back in the direction that he'd come from, idly tossing the small statue up and down in his hand as he flicked off his flashlight. He was sure that he could get out without tripping over anything in the dark, and there was no real sense in wasting his battery. He dropped it into his pocket.

It was directly after he'd gotten his night vision back, when he was almost out of the large room, that a flashlight clicked on right next to his head. It blinded and stunned him like he was a deer that'd jumped out in front of an oncoming car.

"Just what the hell are you doing?"

Sam squinted tightly, feeling like the light was singeing his retinas right off the backs of his eyeballs, and raised his free hand to try and block some of it. He jerked the one that was holding the carving hastily behind his back. Like, somehow, that would help. He couldn't see who was holding the flashlight at him, beyond a dark silhouette right behind that agonizingly-bright circle, but the voice was young, male, and indignant. Security guard. Almost certainly.

"Uh..." he managed. Great. Perfect grades throughout high school, enough memorized lore to wipe out the entire monster population of North America, and a scholarship to Stanford..and that was the most clever response he could give a security guard who had caught him red-handed? Maybe Dean was right.

No. Of course not. Dean wasn't right.

"The museum's closed, y'know." The flashlight was lowered, and Sam's eyes were prevented from spontaneously bleeding. He could also, now, see a fairly generic uniform, red hair, and a ticked-off expression. "And..." The guard dropped both the flashlight and his gaze to the hand that Sam was holding behind his back. Leaning around him disdainfully. Sam considered knocking him out and bolting, but he was back out of range before he could even make a decision. The guy was fast. "...we don't exactly allow free samples."

"Uh, yeah, I wouldn't expect you to." Sam cleared his throat, shoved gloved fingers up through his shaggy hair, then raised both hands in a placating gesture. He tightened his grip on the weirdly-heavy carving. "Listen. I'm not in here to steal anything."

The guard - he had a small name tag clipped to his breast pocket that identified him as "Rick" - almost lazily rolled his eyes over to that carving, and raised an eyebrow. Sam relented.

"Okay. I stole this," he admitted, because, well...he had. There wasn't really any other way to describe it. "But not for any reason that you think."

"Well, if you were older, I'd say you were some sort of insane collector," Rick said, the disdain evident in his voice. Some part of Sam registered that they were maybe five or ten years apart in age. "But I think it's more likely that you broke in here looking for something you could sell for easy drug money."

Sam blinked, then stood up a little straighter, affronted. Did he really look like a drug addict? Maybe he seemed a little bit sketchy, sure, from hitchhiking and then staying at a seedy motel, but...a drug addict? Jesus. He should cut his hair or something.

"You obviously didn't bother with the tour, though." Rick's face was unimpressed as he gestured to the carving with his flashlight. "You're not gonna get much money off of that at all, that's for sure. What the hell were you planning on doing with it?"

Sam opened his mouth, not sure if he was about to tell the truth or jump headfirst into a lie that he prayed would sound convincing. It didn't exactly matter, though, because he was cut off.

"Burn it?" Rick guessed. "Sprinkle some herbs over it while you're doing that? You've probably been reading up on West African purification rituals for the last couple of days, haven't you?" He smiled widely, suddenly, and there was something extraordinarily unnerving about it. "I'd be really disappointed if you haven't."

Possibilities ticked up in Sam's mind with lightning speed. Another hunter - angry that he'd been beaten to the punch. Someone who'd been (creepily) tracking his movements and activities and knew what he did for a living. A deity or spirit connected to the carving he was holding (not very likely). Any way at all, he was mentally kicking himself for not bringing a wider assortment of weapons. He really didn't like that smile.

"Who - " he started warily, lowering his arms, but, again, he was cut off.

"Of course, I should really be asking the more important questions." Rick leaned forward, still smiling, and Sam jumped backwards. He clenched the little statue in one hand, fully prepared to use it as a weapon if he had to (yeah, curse and all), and reached for his gun with the other. He didn't want to kill this guy, not yet. Despite how threatening he was turning out to be. But he could definitely knock him out with a single blow from the butt of his gun. "Like...where's your brother? From what I've heard about the two of you, you're attached at the hip."

Sam gripped the handle of the gun and yanked it out of the waistband of his jeans, his finger automatically settling onto the trigger even though it wasn't his plan to shoot - and then it was yanked out of his hand. So quickly that it almost took his glove with it. He watched it skitter across the polished-tile floor of the museum, and felt both his breathing and heart rate speed up. Adrenaline was released into his bloodstream with a sickening pinch in his abdomen.

"Do you want the carving?" he asked as calmly as he could, lifting it and giving it a shake. He was slowly walking backwards, heart hammering against his ribs so hard it was leaving him breathless, and Rick kept following him. "Is that what you're after? Because you obviously know who I am, so, whatever the reason...I'll obviously understand." He stopped, a few feet from backing into a glass case. Rick stopped, too, which gave him some measure of relief. "Let's talk. All right?"

"Oh, gee, I'm sorry. I thought we _were_ talking." Rick raised his flashlight again, shining it directly into Sam's eyes again, and he winced. "So. Little Winchester. Your big brother's really not here to take a bullet for you?" He made an exaggerated show of looking around. Or, at least Sam thought he did. He couldn't exactly see his eyes, or his head, or really, anything but the light. "Guess that means that...anybody could just come along and take you, couldn't they? You're up for grabs?"

"What are you?" Sam asked, voice steady and firm. He couldn't put even what little he had on his person to use in hurting whatever was in front of him unless he knew what it was. What had telekinetic powers? Ghosts? Demons?

He tried to keep his mind busy with that. Though he wouldn't let on, those last few questions had bothered him. He didn't need Dean to protect him from some sort of monster. He was perfectly capable of handling any threat that he came across himself, and he was absolutely no one's to take. For a meal or ransom or...anything else.

"Come on. I caught you wandering around in the museum after hours." Rick (or whatever the hell his real name was) let the flashlight drop again. "With, I might add, a stolen artifact. Do you really think you get to ask questions here?"

"Please. I didn't come here looking for any trouble." If the thing that was Rick wasn't actually hurting anyone, just prowling around guarding exhibits, then Sam was morally fine with letting it go. And as long as that was a possibility, he was going to keep playing the diplomat.

It wouldn't hurt to have a backup plan, though. With his eyes adjusted, Sam could see a nightstick hanging from Rick's belt, and he didn't like his skull or his jaw's chances against it. He himself had no weapon. Maybe it didn't matter, since the telekinesis could probably ruin him before he even started fighting, but he'd still feel a lot better if - wait. His flashlight was still in his pocket. And it was definitely sturdy enough to deliver more than a few good blows, so there was his backup plan. He'd thought that it would be more reassuring than it actually was.

"Oh, no, I'm sure you didn't," Rick was saying. The smile was gone, but the over-exaggerated look of concern that'd replaced it might be even worse. "You probably thought that you'd be in and out, just like _that."_ He snapped his fingers, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence that surrounded them. Sam, much to his disgust, couldn't keep himself from flinching. "Sorry it didn't quite quite work out that way. I've just been expecting you for a really long time, is all."

"Excuse me?" He'd only been working this case for a couple of days. It wasn't even all that interesting...or, at least, it hadn't been. Until tonight.

"Well, not _you_, specifically." Rick shrugged nonchalantly. "Not anyone as famous as Mr. Winchester, the lesser. I can't believe how lucky I got...but. Anyway. I knew someone would come for it." He was obviously talking about the carving. "Someone always does. But hunters? Warriors, athletes?" And now the grin was back. Fantastic. "Ooh, you guys are my favorites."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked warily, with a quick, confused shake of his head. With every word that came out of Rick's mouth, the possibility that he was benevolent faded a little more. No way could he be human. Sam had only ever come across one human who could move things with his mind (maybe two...if he counted himself, performing a miracle in a fit of desperation to stop a bullet from ending his brother's life), and Rick was too old to be what he had been.

"Samuel - that is your name, right? - Samuel. Calm down." Rick's smile mellowed out a little, becoming kinder and less deranged. Somehow, Sam wasn't put at ease. "Don't worry, you'll find out." He reached up with the hand that wasn't preoccupied with holding his light, fingers spread as if he meant to nip in under Sam's bangs and touch his forehead. "Here. I'll be gentle about this; I always treat new pets right."

Sam's hand, which had dropped to the handle of his flashlight several moments ago, tightened around the plastic casing. He had it out of his pocket in just a second, and didn't hesitate to swing. He bypassed Rick's outstretched hand and smashed into his high, pale forehead just as hard as he could. He heard a horrific scream of pain and rage, as well as the bulb of his flashlight breaking and the lens popping, and didn't stick around to see what damage he'd managed to do. He dropped the tool and bolted, sprinting in the dark, weaving around the faint glints that gave away the positions of the display cases. The figure was still clutched tightly in one of his hands. No way was he giving it up now - he was going to burn this thing and then pitch the freaking hex box into the ocean.

He made it into the corridor. Halfway to the window that was still open and might've saved him, if he'd gotten through it. But he was tackled by something that felt much stronger than its size should allow before he could reach it. Sam smacked into the unforgiving ground at high speed, his teeth smashing together painfully (thank God his tongue hadn't been between them) and his ribs creaking in protest. Someone that he assumed was Rick was perching on his back, holding his arms, pinning him down. Sam had at least six inches on the guy, but he was completely powerless under him.

"I should've believed everyone when they told me all about what a vicious little brat you are," Rick said. It came out as a furious hiss. "Though...'little' isn't really the right word, is it? You've got such a strong frame here...how tall are you? Six-three? Six-four?"

"Go to Hell," Sam growled. His ribs felt cracked, and he was positive that he'd chipped a couple of teeth.

"Surprisingly, it's not that nice of a place." Sam shuddered when Rick bent down to practically coo his response right into Sam's ear. "You came for the talisman. You picked it up. Granted, you didn't exactly touch it, but it'll be so easy to fix that. Sam was, by some miracle, still holding onto the carving. He couldn't get his fingers to release. "Then, you are mine. You're mine right now, in fact. Mine to curse and care for and watch over, until everything's run its course and things are as they should be." He felt the fingers of one hand on the back of his head, stroking and getting tangled up in it. He shuddered again. "Of course, you misbehaved." There was a _click,_ like a flashlight had been turned off. "Lemme return the favor, okay?"

Despite his best efforts, Sam was no match at all for the huge, heavy, metal-encased flashlight that suddenly slammed into the back of his skull. He was out before he even had a chance to yell.

* * *

"You haven't seen a friend of mine by any chance, have you?"

The bartender, proprietor of one of the million and ten greasy little taverns that dotted this particular stretch of highway, scratched his chin and leaned forward a bit. Dean, unimpressed, stood his ground. Just because he was outweighed by about a hundred pounds didn't mean his confidence wavered: he was pretty sure that he was the only one here who was capable of killing a full-grown werewolf with paper clip, and that tended to give a man a warm feeling.

"Depends," the bartender said. "She pretty?"

_"He,_ actually," Dean corrected. "He'd be tall - really, _really _tall, actually - have dark hair, hazel eyes, probably be extremely pissed at everyone and everything. Might look a little bit like me."

The bartender grinned. "You have a fight with your boyfriend?"

"Uh, no." Why did everyone always have to assume that he and Sam were a couple? There was no way they gave off some kind of vibe. "My brother. I just wanna try and find him before he gets himself in some sort of trouble." Which always seemed to happen whenever they were separated. Dean would admit that Sam was his moral compass, but he was most definitely that kid's life jacket. He had to be around to keep him from getting himself killed or tortured or turned into something horrifying and inhuman.

The bartender gave him a long, slow, "yeah-sure-pal" nod, a knowing smile creeping across his face, and Dean had to shove his hands into the pockets of the leather jacket that he was wearing to stop them from clenching into fists.

"You seen him or not?" he asked, the civility starting to drain from his tone. He was attracting the attention of the few patrons in the bar, scattered around the scarred tables and nursing their drinks. It was ten in the morning. What non-hunter drank at ten in the morning?

"Tall, dark guy you said? Young?" the bartender asked. Dean nodded, and stomped down the relief that immediately bloomed in him. If this was nothing, he couldn't afford to get all excited. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I saw him. He didn't come inside, but he was hitching, out near the parking lot, and a car picked him up. He was carrying a backpack. This was a couple days ago."

"Did you see where the car went?" Dean asked, deciding that this was something and getting excited.

"It had Delaware plates, and it looked like it was going back that way."

"Thanks. That helps a lot - I really appreciate it." Dean gave the guy a nod of his own, though this one was brisk and roughly grateful instead of demeaning, and turned to go. He might've considered staying for a quick drink if he hadn't been hot in his little brother's trail. He wouldn't touch a drop of alcohol until Sammy was safe and back at his side.

He'd left the Impala out in the parking lot, and flooded himself with new resolve as he yanked open the door on the driver's side. He had a state, which was more than he'd going on before, and it was a small state, too. He'd find him. He had to.

Dean had waited for Sam to come back, the first day after he'd abruptly stopped talking and just walked out. He'd been willing to apologize for some of what he'd said - because, admittedly, he'd been a real dick - gloss over the whole thing, and just try to bury the inevitable awkwardness under a danger-fraught hunt. When Sam didn't show up, he'd gotten worried, and started looking for him. First around Montrose, Colorado, then the neighboring towns, then outside the state. Maybe he'd found a case of his own and was working it. But wouldn't he've called Dean after a little while if that was it? He thought it was weird for him to hold a grudge as long as he was, even with all the shit that'd passed between them during their fight.

Because that was what it'd been - a fight. Not an argument or anything as civilized as that. They'd shouted, they'd screamed, Dean had knocked several empty beer bottles off a table with a furious swipe of his hand, Sam'd shoved him out of his face. But still. It was really freaking strange not to hear from him at all, not even a cold, "I'm fine; leave me alone." Dean couldn't shake the feeling that Sam was hurt, or captured, or buried just as deep as he could be in something and looking for a way out.

If it turned out that he was okay, just still simmering, Dean would apologize and back the hell off.

But something told him that he wasn't.

* * *

Sam woke, violently, with the tip of his chin resting on his chest.

He jerked his head up with a grunt, shaking his hair out of his eyes and looking wildly around. Meanwhile, he took stock of his body. He remembered the agony of cracked ribs and the crippling ache of chipped teeth, but his chest felt fine when he took a deep breath and his teeth were smooth when he ran his tongue over them. He was also sure that he'd had the back of his head pretty much bashed in by a flashlight, so that should really be hurting, but he felt no pain. And considering how his hair swished when he shook his head, he didn't think that it was matted with blood from a wound, either. He found himself slightly unsettled by his spontaneous healing. He knew that he hadn't imagined getting those injuries, but they'd vanished like they'd never even happened.

He was back in his hotel room, he saw. There was the same peeling tan wallpaper, filthy carpet, and bed shoved into the corner that he'd sighed defeatedly at not too long ago...but there was someone sitting on the bed, right across from the sturdy-feeling chair that he was in. Sam twitched his limbs, tried to stand, and found that his wrists were bound together behind his back, and his ankles were tied to the legs of the chair. It felt like chain binding him, and he swallowed.

His attention focused sharply on the person who'd been sitting on the bed as he slowly rose to his feet. Security guard uniform, red hair...Rick. Probably more than a little predictable. His eyes were different. Sam didn't remember what color they'd been before, but he was pretty sure it wasn't solid black.

A demon. He'd been captured and chained up by a demon...shit. He was in massive trouble and not a single person who cared about him knew where he was.

How on Earth could he have been so _stupid?_

"You don't really stay out all that long, do you?" Rick crouched in front of him, and Sam struggled against the chains that were holding him in place. "Especially not right after you've been healed." He was holding something, and he began to toss it from hand to hand as he stared up at Sam with blank black eyes. The carving that he'd tried, unsuccessfully, to steal from the museum so that he could lift the curse on it. Rick was touching it with his vessel's bare hands.

Sam raised his eyes from the figure to Rick's, trying hard to quell the rapid breathing that had first come from panic and now came from tentative excitement. "You might wanna be careful with that," he said smugly, his voice coming out rough and disused.

"What? This?" Rick held the carving up and examined it, then grinned at him. "Oh, don't worry about _me._ The curse won't do anything, since I ripped out my meat suit's more essential wiring weeks ago. You, on the other hand..." He stood up, slowly, and never broke eye contact. "Oh, it's gonna work _wonders_ on you."

Sam didn't bother with a response. He just struggled, hoping and praying that he could get free and run. He twisted his wrists, his ankles, screwing up his face and grunting with the effort. He had a flask of holy water in his backpack. If he could just get to it, it might buy him the time he needed.

"Samuel. D'you know what this is?" Rick, apparently, didn't give a damn about his escape attempts, because he ignored them and leaned forward. He grabbed the polished wooden arm of the chair with one hand and used the other to shove the figure right into his face. Sam jerked his head back in an effort to keep it from touching him. "No, I guess not. Well, I'll tell you. Enlighten you." Rick straightened up, and lovingly held the carving in both hands, directly in Sam's line of sight. "Couple hundred years back, a demon named Gluttony made this work of art, and imbued it with his powers. He was an amazing guy, hugely talented, and he taught me every single thing I know. He got exorcised not too long after, but before he did, he gave this carving to the women of what is now Mauritania to help them with their gavage rituals. Which he, of course, approved of. And he told me to stay with it. Guard it. Make sure that it serves its purpose just as often as possible."

Sam jerked at the chains, trying to tip the chair over. It didn't work.

"You're not curious about what it does?" Rick raised an eyebrow. "Well...I guess I'll show you anyway. I can't just sit here and watch such a slim, fit, well taken care of body go to waste." Sam was still wearing the clothes that he'd had on in the museum. Namely, a dark hoodie, unzipped, and a T-shirt. Rick lifted the hem of that T-shirt and pressed the figure to his bare stomach, suddenly.

The first thing Sam felt against the flat plane of it was the wood, smooth and cool. It, honestly, felt a little good against the hot skin of his belly. He found himself half-wondering when the curse was going to take hold when it hit him. A primal, basic sensation, ripping through his insides like a massive, serrated claw. Hunger. He'd never felt it so strong before, not even when he'd been much younger, and his father had accidentally blown all their money on booze, and he'd had to go without food for a couple of days. He gasped, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt tears sting them, and doubled over. As well as he could, with his hands tethered together behind the back of the chair. It hurt. It hurt so bad, he couldn't think about anything but filling the hole inside of him...and he could smell food. Something greasy and rich. That seemed like the ultimate cruelty, and a moan broke out of him.

A hand grabbed Sam's chin, yanking his face up and making his eyes fly open, until he was staring at Rick. Who was holding a burger that could've been from any fast food chain at all in his other hand, wrapped in paper, its scent and appearance more appealing to Sam than getting away from this demon. Or finding his father. Or managing to live a normal life. He just needed to eat.

"Takes hold pretty fast, doesn't it?" Rick said. His voice was admiring, as if he were watching a sculptor at work. He let go of Sam, only barely managed to bite back a whimper of need. That burger smelled heavenly, and he could only fantasize about how it would taste. "Listen to me, okay, Samuel? The curse - but it's really more of a blessing - that Gluttony put on this carving changed your body. Pretty spectacularly, too. First of all, it woke up a hunger in you. You're not gonna be able to stop eating." Business-like, he unwrapped the burger, tore off a fairly-large piece, and shoved it into Sam's mouth. He couldn't help himself, chewing and swallowing immediately with a shudder of involuntary pleasure. The meat was incredibly juicy, the buns buttery, the condiments tangy and wonderful. He was pretty sure that it was the absolute best thing he'd ever tasted in his entire life, even though he'd barely given himself any time at all to savor it (he couldn't help it; he was just so overwhelmingly hungry) and he didn't usually like food this greasy. "Even when you're full, when your belly's round and straining and taut as a drum, if you've got food around you...you're going to stuff yourself with it. You just can't help yourself anymore - that's the beauty of the spell."

Sam couldn't even find it in himself to talk right now. He struggled against his bonds. Not because he wanted to get out of this situation, which some still-lucid part of him knew was horrifying, but because he wanted to get rid of the hunger that felt like it was gnawing at every cell in his body. He wanted more of that burger.

"Please," he ground out, and that was all he could manage. He was, honestly pretty shocked that he still had even the barest grasp of the English language, with how he felt right now.

Rick laughed. "Already begging, Samuel?" It was a very small comfort that he used his full name and kept this whole thing almost formal. If he'd been calling him "Sammy," he wasn't sure he could've handled it. "It doesn't take much, does it? When your brother finally finds you, will you beg him to hand-feed you?" He didn't bother just popping another piece of the burger into Sam's mouth. He peeled the wrapper off entirely, then just held it where he could reach it.

Sam ate, eyes fluttering closed in a mixture of pleasure and convoluted shame. It was a rush of flavors as his jaw moved up and down, the very edge of his hunger being just barely sanded off, and then he was licking drips of ketchup and grease off of Rick's palm and fingers. Disgust and shock rippled through him. Jesus...he couldn't actually be doing this, could he? Sucking a trace of meaty flavor off of a demon's thumb? He wanted to scream at himself for this, throw a punch, but, of course, he couldn't.

He wanted...well, he could just barely admit it to himself, but he wanted Dean. He was fiercely hoping for his big brother to get him out of here, even knowing that there was no way that it could happen.

"Of course, it did other things to your body, too." Rick must've taken advantage of the time that Sam was unconscious, because, when he opened his eyes, he noticed bags piled next to the bed. He'd been too busy focusing on the demon before for them to catch his attention. There were paper ones, as if from a fast food restaurant, and plastic, as if from an actual store. As Sam watched, twitching in the grip of a feeling he couldn't quite identify, Rick lifted a paper bag with its top wide open onto the bed and fished out a second burger. Then what looked like a milkshake. "For example...your metabolism's a lot different now. All those extra calories that are gonna be going into you? You won't burn them."

Sam squirmed in his chair and his chains. Something about that sounded pretty worrisome to him, but this spell had temporarily screwed with his mind and sent it whirring in a million different directions. And he was still unbelievably hungry. So his apprehension didn't stop him from chomping into and devouring that second burger, then a third, and suckling contentedly at a milkshake after each one. He'd declared himself completely sick of fast food two weeks ago and forced Dean to go to a sit-down restaurant, but, now, he couldn't get enough of it. It was amazing. So delicious it left him reeling. And it also sated that incredible hunger. So much so that, after he swallowed the last drop of his second shake (chocolate-flavored), he could notice that his jeans were getting tight around his waist. Especially across his stomach. Actually, it was kinda uncomfortable.

"Understand why I love getting hunters?" Rick dipped his hand back into the bag, and produced a fourth burger. Sam swallowed, for several reasons. One was that he was still hungry. The other was that he was afraid to eat more. He was sure that he'd throw up or something. "I can tell that your physique means everything to you. You need it to do your job. You eat well, you exercise...but, from now on, every single time you sit down, it'll be with a heavy, swollen belly, chock-full of all sorts of fattening treats. And when you get up again, you'll be thirty or forty pounds heavier." Rick moved behind him, with way more grace than his red-headed vessel looked like it should possess, and Sam bit the tip of his tongue when he heard paper crinkle. He willingly opened his mouth, though, when the burger was lowered to it. He ate as Rick spoke, ashamed of himself but still reveling in the warm taste. "You'll pack on the pounds supernaturally fast. I can't wait to watch you grow a big, soft belly, a plump ass...your thighs will be touching within a couple of days."

A hand crept over Sam's shoulder, going down his chest in order to rest on his stomach, which was even fuller than before. Weirdly enough, he didn't feel sick. His belly was starting to feel a little sore, a little tight...and, of course, his jeans were cutting into him. It would've been nice to at least unbutton them, but that wasn't an option. Considering that his wrists were chained and all. He flinched at the sensation of fingers prodding at his stomach, even through his T-shirt, and flinched even more when it elicited a soft growl from inside of him. How the hell could he still be hungry? He didn't spend a lot of time pondering the question, just put all of his strength into silently willing the demon to stop touching him.

And he did, after a second. But only so he could go and grab another burger out of the bag, chuckling softly as he did so.

"You're gonna be a perfect little pig in no time at all," Rick whispered, smiling in approval as he watched Sam eat with huge, desperate bites.

When he was done, Sam squirmed in his chair and groaned, a miserable burp pushing its way out of him. Panting slightly and feeling a second burp coming, he looked down at the bulge of his belly where it pressed against his shirt and jeans. Bloated and obvious, it definitely wasn't something he was used to seeing. He was only twenty-two, yeah, but he wasn't his brother. He didn't take every opportunity he got to pig out on junk food. He thought that he usually ate pretty well, good portions, all of that. His stomach wasn't used to this, and it hurt. He was also starting to feel full.

"That's enough," Sam said. He had to pause for a second, in order to hiccup. "Stop, okay? I'm full. Look at me. If I eat any more, I'm probably gonna puke." He thought his voice sounded shaky, but, hopefully, Rick would concede that he had a point. He wouldn't want him to lose all those wonderful calories, would he?

On second thought, maybe he should beg to keep eating and see if he could make himself sick. Get rid of all of this. The prospect of rapidly gaining weight was horrifying - losing his strength, his ability to defend himself, and (this was slightly less important than the first two things) his sex appeal. He'd lost his baby fat ten years ago and had religiously kept it off, never wanting to feel soft and heavy and helpless ever again. It looked like at least some of that effort was going down the drain, though.

"Don't worry...you'll stretch," Rick assured him. He had another freaking burger, which he pushed into Sam's waiting mouth. He should be completely sick of these things by now, but, no, it still tasted fantastic and he still wanted more, so he chewed and swallowed. Making himself fuller and causing his stomach to bulge a little more. "Way, way more than you would have before, believe me."

He seemed to be right. Sam gorged himself right out of the demon's hands for hours, stomach growing bigger and bigger with every bite. It hurt, of course. He couldn't hold back a pathetic little whimper when he looked at his aching middle, then all the food that was left, and realized that Rick probably planned on making him eat all of that. But he never felt nauseous, and he never burst. Which was kind of a wonder in and of itself.

Sam tried to make at least some part of himself believe that he was being force-fed, but he knew that he'd be stuffing his face with the contents of those bags even if Rick had unchained him and left. The stupid demon had been right. He couldn't help himself.

More burgers, fries, thick shakes that Sam sucked down with closed eyes and a sore belly. His T-shirt started to ride up over the swell of it, stretched tight, and his jeans hurt so bad that he had to grit his teeth and hiss and squirm until Rick reached down and unfastened the overworked button. He couldn't think of it as an act of kindness, though, since he stuffed more fries into his mouth on his way.

Potato chips, soda, candy bars. Sam spread his legs to give his growing stomach more room as his jeans unzipped themselves under his new girth, lips wrapped reluctantly around the mouth of a liter bottle and cheeks pink with an ashamed blush. It really didn't help when Rick gave his belly a couple of approving pats, whispering, "Oh, great start, Samuel, perfect gluttony, but we'll get you filled up for real. Don't worry."

Snack cakes, cookies. Rich whole milk. Sam was slumped in his chair, as well as he could be when he was tied to it, and making little sounds of pain that he couldn't quite hold back. His stomach hurt, and it wasn't hard for him to see why. Rick had stuffed him until it all but rested on his thighs, a shiny pink globe that he couldn't miss, so big he practically looked pregnant. And he was still getting bigger. Allowing that to happen. Opening his mouth so that Rick could pop pieces of Twinkie into it with one hand, while the other rested on Sam's belly. The gesture was somehow possessive.

"Y'know, this is almost it," Rick murmured. Sam couldn't hold back a shudder at the tender note in his voice. It sounded like he was caring for a sick child or a wounded pet, and this was nothing like either of those situations. "I should've brought more. You're not even close to your limits, are you?"

"S-stop." Pain. Shame. Horror. Those were the only reasons that Sam stuttered, and he still felt fed up with himself for showing that sign of weakness. He knew, theoretically, how to withstand torture, but he had never been through anything like this before. "I..." He paused, shifting a little in the chair. The movement was difficult, with his stomach so heavy and awkward, and it also jostled it, making him wince. But there was something weird about his body. Different. His jeans didn't just feel tighter across his midsection because his overstuffed belly was pushing down on them; they actually seemed to be cutting into the areas right above his hips, and stretched taut and shiny across both his ass and his thighs. Areas where his clothing had always been pretty loose before. And...was he starting to feel a little less full?

Sam shifted again, and couldn't help a long, low moan of pure horror from filtering out of him. Just because he'd known it would happen didn't actually make facing it easy. He was gaining weight. He could literally feel himself getting fatter...and there wasn't a single thing that he could do about it.

"It happens fast." Rick almost cooed it, before stuffing more sponge cake, rich and sweet and moist, into Sam's mouth. He felt tears stinging his eyes. No! Goddammit, he wouldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of a demon. But he was so painfully full, and he was being fed more, and he had no control over what was happening to him. He whimpered a little as he ate (even prepackaged and full of chemicals, this stuff was unbelievably delicious), and squeezed his eyes shut. "In a couple hours, you're gonna be starving again."

Sam swallowed, snarled out the absolute worst insult-slash-threat he could think of off the top of his head. Dean would've been proud. Rick just laughed. Possibly at the tears that had somehow escaped and started to roll down his cheeks, and not what he'd said.

"C'mon, Samuel, don't be like that," he murmured, bending down to brush those tears away - and, of course, offer him another Twinkie. Sam didn't even try to hold back a whimper, and his eyes welled up again as he chewed. It hurt. Oh, God, eating more hurt so bad, and it was doing terrible things to him. "Okay. I've gotta go, but...how about I come back and check on you in a few days? Think your brother might be around by then? I'm interested to see what he does with you."

He was leaving. Seriously? This wasn't a trick? Sam looked up, blinking back tears and feeling his lips part slightly in incredulity, as Rick picked up the small carving that had screwed with him so completely and walked over to stand beside the bed. He sat up straight, slumped again when he realized that that wasn't a good idea in his current condition, and demanded, "Let me out of here." He rattled the chains around his wrists, glaring defiantly at the demon. "You can't honestly plan on just - just leaving me like this."

Rick cocked the head of his vessel. If his eyes hadn't been black, he would have been almost handsome, for a redhead, but Sam ignored that. Suddenly, there were two fingers under his chin, digging into the softness that had just barely formed there and forcing his head up again.

"Word on the street is that you're a smart kid. You'll figure something out." Rick smiled down at him. Sam's upper lip twitched in disgust. "I think it'll be more fun, work better, if you're on your own. Feeding you is one thing, but having you do everything to yourself?...beautiful."

"When I exorcise you," Sam said calmly, having finally gotten on top of his tears, "I'll do it as slow as I possibly can. Make you _scream."_ He was furious, hurt. Ready for blood. All of that came through in his voice, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he hiccuped in the end.

Rick laughed again. "Adorable, little Winchester. Wonder if you'll still be such a stereotypical spitfire when you're six hundred pounds." And then he was gone. No movement, no flash of light, just instantaneous teleportation and a faint scent of sulfur. Leaving Sam chained to chair in a room full of empty bags and wrappers.

It took several hours for him to work one of his hands free, shifting his position and grunting with effort and rolling his wrists against the chains as they became steadily slicker with the sweat that he was working up. The air conditioner hadn't kicked in, and the room was warm, which worked to his advantage.

By the time that his hand, aching from hours of manipulation, popped out and the chain slid off the other one to clatter on the floor, Sam's stomach was growling every few seconds. Totally empty, it was demanding to be filled, and forcing him to think about food instead of the more important things that he should be focusing on. He was sure that he could handle it, though. If he could defy John Winchester and go to college for two whole years, he could definitely win a battle of wills with his appetite.

Bringing his arms out of the position that they'd been in for way too long and sighing in relief, Sam rubbed at his raw, stinging wrists. Then, reluctantly, he looked down at himself in order to assess the damage. He bit the inside of his lower lip and sighed through his nose.

He was chubby. There was no way at all around that. His thighs were wide and round with something that definitely wasn't muscle, filling out his jeans as he sat. The shape of his chest, rounded swells having replaced sharp pectorals, was hinted at under the loose fabric of his shirt. And his stomach...his jeans would probably still fit, even while buttoned, but it'd be pretty snug. And the soft, undefined, jiggling little potbelly that he'd grown would be obvious beneath his clothes. Looked like he had love handles, too. Smalls ones, marking where he used to have sharp hipbones. Sam swallowed. This wasn't his body. It was hard enough to believe that it'd changed so unbelievably fast...harder still to believe that it'd changed into _this._

But he couldn't obsess over that now. Obviously, he needed help, to break this goddamn curse before he had a heart attack or couldn't walk or something. At least before it got any worse than it was now, because this extra weight could almost certainly be taken care of with a couple weeks of hardcore training. He reached for his cell phone, still the only one he had despite Dean's constant bitching about that fact, grimacing when he had to nudge his marshmallow-soft middle slightly aside in order to dig it out of his pocket. He hesitated, remembering Rick mentioning his brother. The only person he could really trust to help him with this. But calling him with this problem, admitting he'd gotten about neck-deep in it while hunting solo...wouldn't that prove Dean right? Prove that Sam needed him?

More than his wounded pride was at stake now, though. Yeah, he needed his big brother. Maybe some childish part of him even believed that Dean would make everything all better just by showing up. Put a Band-Aid on whatever small wound he'd obtained, give him a hug and then offer to watch TV with him.

He dialed the number of the phone he knew Dean was most likely to have on him, pressed it to his ear, and waited as he worried his lower lip between his teeth.

Dean picked up on the first ring, which he hadn't been expecting. He'd thought that he'd let him sweat for a few minutes, because of how they'd parted ways. "Sammy." The relief in his voice was palpable, and Sam hadn't expected that, either. "Where the hell are you? I've been looking everywhere."

"D..." Sam hesitated. "Delaware." He wasn't sure what made him reluctant. Maybe the fact that, while he'd been getting cockier and cockier with everything that he did right on this case, Dean had been looking for him. Not waiting for him to come home - looking, just in case he was in trouble.

"Already there," Dean said dismissively. "What town?" He paused for a second before, in a softer voice, asking, "You all right? I mean...I expected you to be pissed, after what happened, but I haven't heard a peep from you for a while now."

"Yeah, I..." Sam debated fiercely for a moment before finally saying, "I'm sorry about that. I should've called way sooner...I'm in Argos Corner." It was a pretty strange name for a town; sort of stuck out on a map. He'd cocked an eyebrow when he'd first heard of it. "Liberty Motel. Room one-eight-three."

"Okay, I'm in Georgetown. I'll be there in a few hours," Dean promised, voice rough and business-like. He didn't ask what'd finally made Sam decide to call him, but he could tell he was thinking it. Which was why he blurted out what he did.

"I need your help," he confessed, squeezing his eyes shut tight. His free hand was in his lap, brushing against his thighs and stomach. Ugh. "I screwed up. I ran into some trouble, and I - I'm not gonna get out of it by myself."

"Okay. All right." Dean's voice had taken on that calm, placid tone that meant he was completely freaking out, but he didn't want to let it show because he was driving and would rather not flip the car. "Are you hurt?"

"No." He wasn't, was he? He wasn't bleeding, no bones were broken. His arteries might be clogging as he spoke, but that was probably it.

"So what's wrong?"

Sam looked down at himself again. All the pounds that he could do without, gained within hours. How the hell could he tell Dean, who could live on a diet made up entirely of bacon cheeseburgers for a month and still have the abs of a male model, that he'd gotten fat? And that, thanks to this curse, he was going to get fatter with every bite of the food that he couldn't resist now? He'd get here eventually and see what'd happened, and he'd be disgusted. Sam felt his blush from before flame back up, so hot and embarrassed that it was almost painful. His brother would, of course, understand that it wasn't his fault, but he probably wouldn't be able to look at him straight until he lost all of the extra weight. They'd both had it pounded into them that an overweight hunter was a dead hunter, and no one who fought monsters could afford to let himself go. Their dad had made sure that neither of them could tolerate even a little bit of pudge. Sam couldn't bring himself to explain what'd happened to him over the phone.

"It's pretty bad," he said quietly. He could almost hear Dean's eyebrows draw together, fiercely concerned.

"What is?" he demanded. "Did something bite you? Jesus, Sammy, don't tell me you got turned."

"I didn't," Sam said quickly. This was a complete nightmare, but that would be so much worse. "And don't call me that." It'd been awhile since he'd objected to being called "Sammy," but, right now...in light of the current circumstances...he couldn't stand it. _'Sammy' was a chubby twelve-year-old._ Well, apparently, "Sam" was a chubby twenty-two-year-old, so he just couldn't win.

"Uh, okay. Fine. Whatever." Dean sounded a little confused, but brushed it off. "Sam. Seriously. What's going on?"

"You'll see when you get here." It was inevitable, after all, but he wanted to prolong Dean's find out just as long as he could. Sam ended the call with the press of a button, then dropped it to the floor. It vibrated insistently against the carpet several times, but he ignored it, bending over to work the chains off of his ankles. Because of his stomach, the position was hard for him, and he winced. The wince turned into a grimace as it growled again, insistently.

He had to get something to eat as soon as he was free. Something light, that hopefully wouldn't make him gain too much. He was sure he'd pass out if he didn't.

* * *

Dean was in Argos Corner (weird-ass name for a town, but, considering that his family shared a name with a firearm, he planned on keeping his mouth shut about it) in record time. He didn't feel bad about the myriad traffic laws he'd almost certainly broken, getting here. Sam's refusal to tell him what was up had been extraordinarily annoying, but it also let him know that something was really wrong. Something Sam wouldn't say over the phone. He couldn't imagine what it was, but he was probably going to find out pretty quickly, seeing as he had just pulled into the parking lot of the Liberty Motel. It looked like their usual kind of place, and he couldn't help but be a little proud of Sam for having good instincts even on his own.

He got out of the car, making sure to lock it, and let his fingertips momentarily brush against the gun that he'd pushed into the waistband of his jeans. Just in case. He didn't really think that he'd have to put a bullet between his little brother's eyes (and, if he did, the next one would probably be going right between his own), but there might be something in there with him. Or nearby. Dean looked up and down the rows of doors, pinpointed the one that had "183" painted on it, and beelined for it.

"Sam." He knocked on the door, leaning close, but he didn't hear anything from inside the room. "Hey, Sam? It's me. You in there?" He waited several heartbeats and then, when there was still no answer, he tried the knob. The door opened easily.

Dean stepped inside, looking warily around. Yeah, this was definitely Sam's room; it was almost Spartan in its cleanliness. The only marks of habitation were his backpack, sitting neatly at the foot of the one bed, and the fact that the small trash can seemed to be overflowing with junk food wrappers. Which was, yeah, a little weird, considering how prissy Sam usually was about what he ate, but Dean was honestly more concerned with the chair in the middle of the room. And the chains draped over it. Somehow, he just couldn't believe that that was normal. He reached for his gun. Barely a second later, he heard footsteps in the doorway.

He spun around and leveled the gun, rock-steady, at...well, he didn't recognize him at first. He thought he was looking at a young guy, dark hair, who could afford to put in some serious hours at the gym. It took a second for him to realize that that dark hair was cut in Sam's exact style, he was wearing Sam's clothes, and - Jesus, it _was _Sam. Head bowed in what looked like shame, several fast food bags cradled in one arm, and plump belly barely covered by his T-shirt.

"Oh, my God," Dean said, letting the gun drop to dangle, limply, from his hand as it hung at his side. He saw Sam, or, at least, this much-heavier version of Sam, flinch a little. "Are you okay?" He closed the distance between them with a couple steps and placed his free hand on his younger brother's shoulder, examining him with concern. "What happened?"

"Curse," Sam muttered, shrugging his hands off quickly and pushing past him. Dean turned to watch as he sat down on the bed, carefully placing the bags next to himself. He sighed before pulling one open, fishing a burger out of it. Dean cocked his head as he bit into it, slightly confused.

"So, uh..." He smiled a little, tucking his gun back into the waistband of his jeans. "It's not just from a few too many candy bars?" When he saw the absolutely wounded look that Sam gave him, he got rid of the smirk. "Sorry. This is serious. Shouldn't've said that."

"Yeah, you've kinda got a talent for that." Sam swallowed, not making eye contact with him. Dean pressed his lips together, remembering their fight, at the chill in his voice. "Apparently, I can't stop eating. Can't stop gaining weight, either. Fast." Taking another bite out of the burger, Sam glanced at the bags beside him, disgust flickering momentarily over his face. Still chewing, he shoved them away from himself. "Dean, can you...just get rid of those. Please."

He spoke quickly, sounding defeated. Dean closed the door, hiding them from the street, then walked over to the bed. "Not hungry?" he asked softly, all trace of teasing gone from his voice. Sam shook his head, finishing the burger and reaching for another.

"I'm starving." He said it grimly. "I just don't want...this..." He gestured, almost angrily, to his own body. "...to get any worse than it already is."

"Well, uh, before I throw all of that away," Dean began, waving a hand at the bags of food as he sat down on the bed, "tell me exactly how this happened."

Sam swallowed, and shot him a glare. "Dean - "

"Tell me," Dean said firmly. "You sit right here, Sam, and you tell me everything. I realize I said a lot of stuff that hurt you, a few days back, and I'm sorry about that. But I'm trying to help right now, and I can't do a goddamn thing if I don't know the details."

Sam stared at him, seemingly taken aback. Dean spread his legs, not giving a damn when one of his knees pressed into Sam's soft thigh (they never had enough space, they were always touching), then rested his elbows on his own thighs and clasped his hands between them. He waited, looking right back at his brother.

"That's as close to an apology as you're gonna get," he added. "It's not like you weren't being a complete asshole, too."

He was rewarded with a little bit of a smile, which made him feel pretty good. He could still get Sammy to stop feeling sorry for himself and focus on what needed focusing on. As if to prove his point, Sam started explaining how things turned out the way they had, after another bite of his second burger. He laid out the whole case for Dean. From interviewing the nutty psychic to breaking into the museum. Dean nodded as he talked (and ate - he really couldn't help himself), approving of his methods. At least, up until the point where he ran into the demon security guard.

"Aw, _Jesus,_ Sam, that's why you have a _partner,"_ he complained, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose. Sam, pink lips wrapped around the straw of a soda, nodded resignedly.

"Why d'you think I called you now?" he asked, taking his mouth off long enough to ask that. And to burp, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle it. He closed his eyes, obviously embarrassed. Dean looked at him. How his hips were straining the seams of his jeans that'd been baggy the last time he'd seen them, how his brand-new love handles were jiggling slightly with every movement he made, how his shirt only covered about half his stomach, swollen with food, now. He'd never seen his brother like this and, honestly, never expected to. He didn't expect the sudden, completely-unwanted twitch from between his legs, either. His eyebrows shot up, and he hastily looked away from Sam. What the hell had that been?

"So what happened after you realized he wasn't exactly your average rent-a-cop?" he asked, to try and cover up what'd just hit him. Sam set the now-empty cup aside, and made some sort of self-disgusted little growling sound under his breath as he dug through the bags in search of something else. In the back of his mind, Dean was pretty sure that Sam'd gotten hit with this curse a couple days ago. He hadn't been too specific about the timeline. So, yeah, it'd slowed his metabolism down, but one meal couldn't hurt him. If he was "starving," Dean was going to let him eat.

While munching on french fries, Sam continued with his story. Judging by the way his eyes fluttered closed in what looked a little bit like guilty bliss a few times while he was eating, the curse had done quite a bit to screw with him. When he started talking about waking up chained to a chair and then being force-fed way past the point of comfort, Dean practically snarled. He should've gone after him when he walked out of their motel room and convinced him to stay. He should never have let anything like this happen to his baby brother.

"I am gonna rip that thing to pieces," he growled, examining one of Sam's wrists (a joint that was, surprisingly, still pretty bony) where the chains had rubbed the skin raw. "Don't even care how long it takes to find him. I'll rip him to pieces, then burn that stupid, freaky doll-thing you were talking about...how long ago did you say this happened?"

"A few hours." Crumpling up the wrapper of yet another burger, Sam hiccuped, then winced. "He said it worked fast. I guess I didn't believe him." He glanced at Dean out of the corners of his hazel eyes, guilty and humiliated. Like a kid who'd been caught with a horrible stomachache after completely cleaning out the cookie jar. "This is the second time I've eaten since I called you. I was about thirty times lighter then."

"Oh, man." Dean eyed the bags and the wrappers, and chewed on his lower lip as his conscience cringed. Well...he hadn't known. How fast it was. This really was a brutal curse. After Sam offered a bitter, "Yeah," he said, "We're gonna fix this. Don't worry. Everything's gonna be back to normal before you know it." He paused, considered, then added, "Well...y'know. _Our_ normal."

"I really hope so," Sam replied, shifting a little with a slight groan. He reached down to pull up his shirt, completely exposing his full belly, then put a hand on either side of it and grimaced. Dean looked at that swell of tan flesh, undoubtedly soft and warm, and wanted to touch it. Considering how much he'd eaten, Sam had to be hurting. Maybe he could soothe him a little. But he didn't lay a hand on him, and instead tried to force all of these weird thoughts out of his head. "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take."

"Could've been worse," Dean pointed out. Sam rubbed his bloated stomach a little, looking down at it with something a lot like hatred.

"Sure it could've," he muttered. "I can't control my own body, I'm already overweight, and I'm probably gonna be obese within a matter of hours if I keep pigging out like this."

"Hey. No. C'mon." Dean grabbed Sam's shoulder, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. He looked surprised by the gesture. "I'm here now. I'm gonna take care of you."

For a second, Dean saw a flash of the stereotypical bitch face that Sam had perfected around the time that he was fifteen, and expected him to complain that he was twenty-two and didn't need to be taken care of. But must've realized that, actually, he did, at least for the moment, because he just blinked at him and muttered, "Thanks." Dean smiled and rubbed his shoulder.

"All right. I'm gonna head over to the museum, see if that carving or whatever is still there. If it is, I'll go back after closing time, get it, and burn it." He stood up, letting go of Sam's shoulder. "Just let me move my stuff in here." Having one of them sleep on the floor in this room was probably easier than getting a different one with two beds; and Dean was reluctant to make Sam move right now, considering how sore his belly looked. "You can stay here, and...just try to digest. Call me if you need anything."

"Dean." Sam's voice was uneasy. Still holding his stomach, he looked up at him. "I'm gonna start getting hungry again in about ten minutes."

He was practically squirming with embarrassment. Something inside of Dean's chest clenched. He was going to enjoy exorcising the demon that had made his strong, stubborn little brother so vulnerable and ashamed of himself. He wasn't actually angry at him (it, whatever; did they even have genders?) for what had happened to Sam's body. But he didn't realize that.

"I'll lock that door," he told him, trying to keep his voice reassuring. "With these kinds of knobs, there's a way to do it that won't let it open from the inside."

Sam reached up to rub at his eyes. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Dean brought his duffle in from the Impala, dumping it next to Sam's backpack, then gave his brother a pat on the back before going outside. Not a slap; a pat. He felt like he had to handle him gently right now. After closing the door, he pulled a set of lockpicking tools out of one of the inner pockets of his jacket and went to work on the inside of the knob. While he was doing that, he couldn't help thinking about the fact that there were some candy bars in his duffle bag, and that Sam would almost certainly find them. Eat them. Hunch over his overstuffed belly and whimper, rubbing it while he miraculously filled out even more. Dean hated that image. Only because Sam was in pain - not really for any other reason.

He stood and went to the Impala. He had no idea at all why he hadn't taken the candy out of the bag before putting it in the room, and his actions bothered him. But he didn't go back.

Sam's body might be completely out of whack, but Dean was convinced that the really bad stuff was going on inside of his own head.

* * *

Sam woke up so hungry that he couldn't hold back a pathetic whimper.

Dean, sprawled on the floor like he'd passed out there, was scrambling to his feet immediately. When he'd come back from the museum last night, dejected and grim because the carving had been missing from its glass case (and Rick the demonic security guard was nowhere to be found), he'd insisted that Sam take the bed and have him sleep on the floor. Sam had initially dug his heels in. Dean was the one who'd been dashing around all day, he needed the rest more than him if he planned on going after Rick, and Sam had more padding to insulate him from the hard floor. That last part, though, he hadn't said out loud; it was way too embarrassing. His other arguments failed to sway Dean. His stomach was way too full and hurt pretty bad, especially after the chocolate that his brother must've forgotten was in his duffle bag, and he reluctantly agreed to sleep in the bed after about fifteen minutes.

He sat up now and pushed the thin covers off of himself, touching his belly where it overlapped the waistband of the sweatpants that he slept in. A demanding growl rumbled through it, one he felt as much as heard, and he grimaced a little. Dean stood beside him, pretty much radiating concern.

"What's wrong?" he asked, leaning over him slightly like he was looking for some kind of injury. His voice was rough with sleep, but he also sounded pretty alert, which was something that Sam had always found a little annoying.

"'M hungry," he muttered, not looking at Dean as he swung his legs out of bed and stood up. He almost moaned with disbelief as he did so. Changing out of his clothes last night (in the bathroom, so as not to put himself on any sort of display) had been a pain in the ass, with his belly so annoyingly round and full. But it was worse this morning, considering that he was obviously much heavier now. Wider. Softer. His middle overlapped the waistband of his sweatpants, his T-shirt (having ridden up) wasn't doing a great job of covering that fold of fat, and the formerly-loose fabric was tight across his ass and hips.

Sometime during the night, he'd drowsily entertained the idea that this whole thing was a nightmare. Obviously, it wasn't.

"Well, okay...we'll both shower, then we'll grab something and hit the road." Dean shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. Sam couldn't imagine how he wasn't examining the latest additions to his weight gain, a look of disgusted fascination on his face, and wondering just how the hell he could get his lean, competent hunting partner back from...this.

Sam shook his head, frustrated by the fact that Dean was acting like everything was normal. Like he wasn't something like fifty freaking pounds overweight. "Dean...no," he said, keeping his voice firm even as his stomach growled again and made him want to whine with pain. "I'm not eating this morning. In fact, I've been thinking about it, and I probably shouldn't eat until we've managed to find this demon and that carving. Break the curse."

Dean really didn't like that idea. He made it clear, too, both before and after Sam showered. He didn't take long under the water, wanting to get clean but definitely not looking forward to getting intimate with this version of his body, and he could feel Dean standing outside the door the entire time. Sullen and maybe even a little angry. He didn't exactly subscribe to the belief that Sam starving himself was a good way to deal with the situation, and, actually, he seemed to think it was a pretty stupid idea. Even stupider than gorging himself until he could barely move.

"We don't know what this curse'll do to you if you don't eat at least a little," he argued, once they were both clean and dressed. It'd taken awhile, in Sam's case. He'd dug through his jeans, finding his very largest pair, which he'd always had to wear with a belt on its tightest notch before. He just barely got them buttoned. It was the same with the button down he'd chosen to go over his T-shirt. He'd pulled on one of his looser jackets and zipped it up to his chin, hoping to God that no one would notice that his clothes were very nearly too small for him. "This ain't normal weight, Sam. You might starve to death or something. And you're obviously miserable right now - you really wanna feel like that all day?"

Sam zipped his backpack closed after struggling to bend over and pick it up, terrified, for a moment, that he'd split his pants. But apparently he wasn't quite that big. Yet. Unfortunately, Dean was right - he couldn't focus on anything but the hideous, gnawing pain in his belly. This might actually be worse than the feeling of being completely overstuffed. He'd started fantasizing about food, and couldn't get himself to stop. Waffles, covered with syrup and whipped cream. Sausages. Bacon. Scrambled eggs with cheese in them. Pancakes. Muffins. He wanted breakfast, so badly that it was almost as strong as the physical pain of his hunger. The thought of eating and gaining more weight because of it disgusted him, but, at the same time, he liked the idea of being completely sated with good, rich food. He bit the inside of his lower lip so hard that the metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth. He hated this curse. He hated not having control.

"I don't wanna end up like I did yesterday," Sam muttered, slinging his backpack up onto his shoulder and turning to face his brother. "I told you. I don't wanna make this worse. It's unhealthy, and - and _repulsive,_ and I was already sick of it the second it started happening. Losing all of this is gonna suck, and I'd really rather not spend any more time on that than I have to."

And that was when Dean did something weird.

"It's just a little bit of pudge," he countered. Sam felt indignity flare up in him, because there was nothing "little" about it, but then he felt his brother's hand on his middle. Feeling it through the layers of clothing, his fingers and palm pressing into the very top of that pillowy swell. Sam's mouth opened a little bit. He hadn't thought that Dean would want to touch him, in his current state, even though there was usually a lot of back-slapping and shoulder-grabbing and hugging when they were together. Just a quick, easy way of connecting without saying a word. Apparently, he'd been wrong, and...that woke something up in him. A feeling that he couldn't quite identify. "Not that big of a deal...and I can feel your stomach growling. You're a young, strong guy. A breakfast burrito or whatever we get - you can choose - might put a couple pounds on you, but you're not gonna die."

"I might." Sam said it softly, knowing that Dean was trying to make him feel better and help him to believe that everything really was gonna work out okay. And that he was probably being pretty annoying. But his girlfriend, before being brutally murdered right in front of him, had been studying to be a nurse, and he'd been involved enough with her homework to know all the dangers of obesity. All the health risks. That was definitely contributing to how crappy he felt about everything that was currently happening to him. "And...didn't I explain this to you? I'm not gonna be satisfied with a normal amount of food." He took hold of Dean's wrist, pulling his hand off. He supposed that he was all right with the contact, but he didn't want to be touched right there.

"Well, we can sure as hell try." Dean raised both eyebrows in the way that had always meant that he was just about done talking. Then he turned, heading out the door. "C'mon, Sammy, get in the car."

"Don't call me that, please...where are we even going?" Sam followed him. Some part of himself, buried deep and bitter, half-hoped that Dean would admit that he had no idea. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. He was pretty sure that he wasn't in the best frame of mind right now.

"Othello, New Jersey." After locking the door (he'd checked out while Sam had been getting dressed, steadily convincing a suspicious night-shift clerk that he really was related to the chubby guy in 183), Dean walked to the car and glanced at Sam. "I talked to the curator of that museum last night. That's apparently where the collection that that carving was part of was heading next. Closest thing we got to a lead, so we're gonna go hang out there until we've got something better."

Sam had to admit that that was really their best bet at the moment. And that he was probably going to start crying out of pure, crippling hunger if he didn't eat within twenty minutes. As much as he hated that, how completely pathetic this curse was making him, it was a fact, so he told Dean. Very reluctantly. And the problem of his hunger, at least, got fixed.

It happened slowly, on the way to Othello - and it was a pretty long way, because Dean insisted on driving around the water that separated Delaware and New Jersey. Dean asked if he was hungry every once in awhile. Sam admitted that yeah, he was. They both agreed that something small, just something to take the edge off of his hunger and make it so that he could focus on stuff besides food, was okay. So it was early evening before Sam unzipped his jacket, pulled his shirts up, unbuttoned his jeans, and cradled his stomach, swearing.

Dean, who'd been doing a pretty good job of focusing on the road for the past hour or so, glanced over at him. Then his midsection, swollen and overly full. Sam was doing his absolute best to start thinking of that part of his body as separate from the rest of him. That wasn't his own huge belly, resting thick and warm on his lap and in his hands, and demanding to be fed just a little more. It was some sort of unnatural parasite, and its size wasn't his fault.

"Full?" Dean asked. There was nothing mocking in his voice, nothing teasing or disgusted or, hell, even disappointed. Even when Sam had been stuffing his face earlier, eating like he hadn't touched food in a month, his brother hadn't batted an eye. Perversely, he wished he'd lean away from him, or tease him about what'd happened. Call him "fatass" or "tubby" - anything would be better than this unwavering sympathy.

"Yeah," Sam huffed out. No. He wasn't. He wanted more, he wanted to stop being hungry, he wanted to stuff himself until he thought he was about to burst. He wanted...he felt a blush spring up over his cheeks and hoped that it was too dark for Dean to pick up on it. He wanted his brother to feed him. Just so long as he got to eat. He tried to fight past each and every one of those desires, reminding himself that they _weren't his_ and they weren't right, and shifted in the leather passenger seat of Dean's beloved Impala. He was just trying to find a comfortable position. It was difficult, both with his stomach so sore and because of the fact that he took up a lot more of this seat than he had the last time he sat in it.

"Well...we're gonna be there in a couple hours." Dean cleared his throat, sounding...almost apologetic. Sam couldn't imagine why; he wasn't the one who'd cursed him. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah." No. He was pretty freaking far from okay, but he was also tired of complaining about it. As much as he might want to, it wasn't going to help him at all. Helping Dean to track down Rick, to burn the figure and break the curse on him, and doing his best not to act like a pig and gain any more weight...that would help.

He massaged his aching, but still somehow slightly empty, stomach, and sighed. That might be a whole lot harder than it sounded.

* * *

They spent a few days in Othello before Dean came across any information on the whereabouts of Sam's demon.

It wasn't for lack of trying on either of their parts. Dean silently decided that finding Dad could wait until his younger brother wasn't in imminent danger of having a heart attack (though, actually, maybe he wasn't, considering that he seemed pretty healthy. Beyond being on the far end of chubby all of a sudden and having the appetite of a healthy young werewolf), and Sam must've silently agreed, because he didn't bring up the search for their father. Sam checked every news and weather site he could find daily for news of demonic omens anywhere nearby, and looked for stories and accounts that matched his own. If this demon was as eager to spread this whatever-the-hell as he'd sounded in Sam's explanation, there would be more victims popping up. He, meanwhile, called every single one of Dad's contacts who wouldn't swear and hang up the second they heard the name "Winchester," and did the legwork. Looked for demonic signs all around town, searched for guys matching the description of the demon's meat suit, and hung around the local museum so much that one of its two curators point-blank asked him if he was casing the joint. And nothing happened. For days.

Well, that wasn't entirely true, he guessed. A few things happened. For one thing, Sam ballooned.

It definitely wasn't his fault. Between the curse that currently had its claws in him and a bunch of really stupid decisions on Dean's part, whatever waistline he'd been trying to maintain until the demon was exorcised and the carving was burned never stood a chance. At his urging, Dean locked him in their motel room while he was out, so that he couldn't break and go find a restaurant to gorge himself at. But he couldn't help but think about him, miserable from hunger and struggling as best he could with it, whenever he wasn't at home, and tended to pick up snacks for him. Little stuff that he thought couldn't hurt, though he realized later that he brought Sam a lot more food than he probably should've. Sam ate it, of course, belly and the rest of his body swelling contentedly. And he ate off of Dean's plate or out of his takeout box when he had meals in their room. He probably shouldn't've have allowed that, either. But Sam was obviously starving, and Dean could only stand his little brother whimpering softly and whining in the back of his throat and fighting to keep an expression of pure suffering off of his face for so long.

So Sam gained weight. Fast, like he'd said. His ass spread, pillowy and rounded and straining every stitch in the seat of his jeans. So did his stomach, which was where most of the soft fat produced by Dean's half-clueless tending seemed to be settling; it inched forward and outward, making every single one of his shirts skintight. He also developed a double chin. Dean couldn't've predicted it, but it made him look...cute. Younger. Those big, soulful eyes of his and full lips combined with the advancing chubbiness to make him more adorable than he'd been since before he'd hit puberty. He'd had a pretty large frame even before this hit, and he carried all of the extra pounds well.

The problem was that Dean didn't just think he was cute, though, though, and that was another thing that happened. He'd never minded it if one of his sexual partners was overweight, but...dammit, Sam was his brother. Off-limits. He should be completely disgusted by the thought of doing anything even romantic with him. And he most definitely shouldn't like him eating and gaining weight.

But he did. Obviously, he was completely sick. In the beginning, he just got a quick bolt of arousal when he saw Sam or touched him or whatever. Now, he could get a full-blown erection that just wouldn't go away from certain things. Brushing against the soft, warm shape of Sam's belly, for example. Seeing Sam full, panting and cradling a bloated stomach. Watching Sam walk. Because he kinda waddled now and Dean couldn't get over that. Jesus, he wanted to feel every softening inch of him, feed him until he was completely satisfied...

Yeah, something was definitely wrong.

He wondered if it was some side effect of this stupid curse, extending to him and making him want to worship his brother's body with his hands and his tongue and (God help him) his cock. He was half-tempted to ask that demon when he finally tracked him down, but, even in his limited experience, these things were annoying enough without personal ammunition. Letting it know that he was having incestuous feelings for Sam was the equivalent of handing it a small nuclear bomb.

Without a magical solution, Dean dealt with the whole thing the way that he'd dealt with problems concerning himself for most of his life: he tried to ignore it.

He was not watching TV while lying on his stomach because he was hard from seeing Sam's belly spill out of his jeans when he leaned forward to pull his laptop closer. His breath did not shudder in his throat when Sam struggled to get the buttons on his clothes done. Sam was not getting bigger because Dean was subconsciously pushing so much food at him.

And, y'know, that kind of worked. For awhile. At least until the morning Sam tried to get dressed and couldn't quite get his largest pair of jeans up past his thighs.

His embarrassment about his big brother seeing him as he was at the moment appeared to have faded to the point where he didn't get dressed in the bathroom anymore. Dean was lacing up his boots, doing his best not to notice Sam, but he looked over when the usual grunts of effort started sounding more desperate than normal. He was standing by his bed, shirtless, with both his love handles and his belly overlapping the elastic waistband of his boxers, and they jiggled furiously as he tried to pull his jeans up. Dean knew that he hadn't been able to get them buttoned, or even zipped, yesterday, so this wasn't too surprising. It really seemed to be bothering Sam, though.

"What's wrong?" he asked, standing up as soon as he was finished with his boots. The issue was pretty obvious, but he still felt the need to ask.

"Uh..." Sam swiftly glanced over at him, face flushed with both exertion and shame, then sighed. Looking away, he let go of one side of his jeans in order to run a hand through his hair. "I can get these on. Just give me a few minutes."

"Sammy, they're too small," Dean pointed out, an empathetic smile flickering across his mouth for a few seconds. Sam shook his head stubbornly.

"They're pretty freaking _tight,_ but they aren't - " He gave the jeans a vicious yank. It didn't seem to do much good; they were staying where they were, digging into the thick padding of his thighs. " - too small." After a few more minutes of struggle, he plopped down onto the bed and looked up at Dean, breathing hard. "I can't...there's no way I can be that big." He looked down, and placed a tentative hand on top of his gut. He hadn't eaten anything at all that morning, so massive growls were rippling along every few seconds, making Sam's face go almost blank with sudden and gripping need. "Can I?"

"Well..." He didn't want a panic attack or a breakdown. He didn't wanna lie to him, either. He rolled his shoulders under his jacket, something that could either be interpreted as a shrug or just a movement to try and make the leather fall on him properly. Sam obviously took it as the former.

"Oh, man," Sam groaned, reaching up to rub, hard, at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I can't believe this. I...I've been..." He looked up at Dean again, and he could guess what he'd been about to say. _I've been starving myself._ By the parameters of the curse, he had, actually. "Jesus. I'm so sick of this."

"Hey. It's okay." Dean dropped a hand onto his shoulder, rubbing reassuringly. Sam sighed in frustration and took two handfuls of his belly, squeezing them with a look of resigned disgust on his face. He did it as if he were making some kind of point.

"I'm not eight," he snapped. "You can stop pretending everything's going fine, okay? We're not any closer to finding the demon than we were four days ago, or breaking the curse on me. In fact, the only thing that's changed at all is that I'm a whole lot heavier. I can barely bend over. My clothes - " He slipped the jeans off of his legs and gestured to them as he stood up. " - don't fit."

"Sam, you know both of us are doing everything we can," Dean soothed. "At this point...it's just waiting. Watching. Okay? Everybody's got slow days, and this..." He reached forward to pat Sam's stomach. His skin was smooth and warm, feeling almost satiny in stark contrast to the calluses on Dean's hand. And it covered such a large swell of incredible softness...his cock jumped and he took his hand away. Maybe a little too quickly. He'd be hiding a full-blown erection soon. "...ain't the end of the world."

"I stood up this morning, and I couldn't see my feet," Sam said, sounding a little angry. Dean sighed.

"Stop whining, Samantha, it's not that bad." He leaned down to sift through Sam's backpack, digging out a clean T-shirt. But, of course, Sam was anal as hell and all the clothes in there were clean. "You'll fit in your favorite dress again in no time."

Sam glared. Dean sighed again, realizing that there was no way at all to get him out of this mood (especially with his belly empty), and just offered the shirt to him.

"Try this," he suggested. "If your shirts fit, you can just start using your sweats as pants."

Long story short - none of his shirts fit. At least, not very well; they didn't cover his belly comfortably. Some part of Dean was very okay with that, but none of Sam was. He wouldn't let go of that last scrap of dignity, though, and flat-out refused to lounge around in nothing but his underwear. Which was how Dean ended up helping him pull his sweatpants up, despite Sam's wounded insistence that he didn't need him.

Hands on Sam's now-ample hips. Wrists brushing against his love handles. Abs pressed against his luxuriously-pliable stomach. Lips inches from his gorgeous pink mouth, his second chin, the curves of his chest -

Dean was in trouble.

Swallowing a growl of arousal and affection was like forcing a cue ball down his throat, and letting go and stepping back was even harder. He _wanted._ He'd never once been attracted to his brother before - at least, not that he would ever admit. But even those few repressed desires, probably spawned by having a small, much-loved body practically attached at the hip to his while they'd both been going through puberty, had never been anything like this. This practically burned.

And, somehow, it was more than just a need for sex, or pleasure, or even skin-on-skin contact. He wanted to make Sam feel better, get rid of all that self-loathing and revulsion and insecurity, and show him that he was loved and appreciated. Even like this. Hell, _especially _like this.

"Dean?" Sam asked quietly, voice cautious as he broke him out of his revelation of what he was feeling. There was pain in there, too, or at least pain that was waiting to happen. Dean could imagine, well enough, how this had to look to him: he'd touched him, gotten close to him (more specifically, to his body), and then jumped back. He didn't know that he'd been getting so aroused and so full of longing that it was painful, and Dean sure as hell wasn't gonna tell him. He cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest and keeping his legs close together.

"I'd better go," he said, his voice coming out a whole lot huskier than he would've liked. He had to get out of here before the bulge in his jeans got so pronounced that no position he stood in could hide it. "Get breakfast. See if anyone called me." None of his cell phones got reception in or around the motel. He suspected lead paint.

Sam swallowed, painfully, and Dean had several extremely inappropriate ideas about how to get rid of the hurt and defeat in his eyes. Which was pretty obvious, despite his efforts to hide how he was feeling. "Uh...okay, then. See you later." He turned away, probably meaning to go to the small table that his laptop was set up on and immerse himself in research, but paused to murmur something over his shoulder. "You don't have to get me anything."

"Yeah, sure thing." Dean completely ignored that, and came back awhile later with a flaccid dick and enough food to make Sam laugh disbelievingly and pitch what looked a whole lot like a fit. While stuffing his face as fast as he could, the curse taking sudden and violent hold. But, apparently, it wasn't enough to make him suspicious, because he apologized quietly while cradling his too-full stomach and leaning back against the pillows on his bed. Dean, erect again and practically drooling at the thought of massaging away the pain in his belly, kissing, feeling that perfect skin, and letting him eat more, made up some excuse about getting bigger clothes for his brother and bolted. He did, actually, come back with T-shirts and jeans and flannel button downs that happened to fit, but he knew that he took way too long. And Sam found his decisions less than tasteful.

Someone called him while he was out. A guy he barely knew himself, but whom his father had dealt with a couple times before he dropped off the face of the Earth. He didn't hunt, but his business was cursed, magical, and possessed objects, and someone who looked a whole lot like Dean's description of Sam's demon's vessel had just barely tried to sell him something. An African-looking carving that he seemed eager to make one of his assistant's ( a young girl, athletic) touch. Once he had the address, up in Carthage, New York, he went back and focused on getting Sam and their crap packed up and into the Impala. Sam actually seemed fairly upbeat, now that they had a lead; he actually wanted to talk and he wasn't sullen about eating, even as he digested from breakfast and even as the new clothes got a little tight on him. He might not've approved of Dean's choices all that much, fashion-wise, but he was probably grateful that he could at least get them on.

Dean didn't talk. He couldn't. The dam had completely broken, and he'd definitely stopped being able to ignore everything. It took all of his willpower to keep driving and not pull over to kiss and touch and confess everything as fast as he could. And it was pretty difficult to think about things other than the young man - his close blood relative - next to him. He didn't want to get hard again.

After a while, Sam stopped trying to start a conversation and lapsed into confused, embarrassed silence. He probably thought that Dean was getting sick of his fat brother. That couldn't be further from the truth, but Dean would not correct him.

He would track down the demon, exorcise it, then perform every purifying ritual he knew on that stupid carving. He planned on nullifying this curse in a million different ways. Sam would drop back down to one-seventy-five or however big he'd been before, and he'd stop being completely irresistible. Every single thing would settle back down.

Well. He sure as hell hoped so, at least.

* * *

"I don't want anything," Sam muttered, tapping frustratedly at the keyboard of his computer with fingers that were beginning to get round and chubby. He'd always had huge hands, and the pads of fat that were plumping up his palms and wrists were contributing to that. He hated it.

"Yeah, okay, Sam." Dean, who had only gotten back about half an hour ago after spending all day sniffing around their helpful contact's shop, shrugged his leather jacket back on. "So, should I grab, like, a salad? Side of fries?"

"No, I told you. Don't get anything for me," Sam replied a little forcefully as he looked up from the screen of his laptop. "I'm not eating tonight."

Dean rolled his eyes, apparently not impressed. Sam could practically feel exasperation coming off of him, and, to be honest, he was pretty annoyed by it. He wasn't some kind of stubborn kid, and the problem that they were facing was not a small one. Pun not intended.

"Thought we already had this conversation," he began, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing him with a steady green stare. "Sammy. You can't just not eat."

"Don't call me that...and I think it'd be a good idea tonight," Sam replied dryly. He closed the screen of his laptop with a _click_ (all he'd been doing was skimming for demonic omens in other parts of the country, just in case Rick had moved on), and hefted himself out of the chair he'd been sitting in with a grunt of effort. And a wince when the metal and plastic of the chair creaked in what sounded suspiciously like relief. "You didn't eat this morning, Dean. Because you left your takeout box full of...some kind of sausage? Maybe?...on the nightstand, right next to me. I had that and pancakes, and hash browns, and eggs - way, _way_ too much. Especially with how big I've gotten since this started." He self-consciously hiked his jeans up. They were still roomy on his thighs and ass, though snug around his hips (but not uncomfortably so, fortunately), and tight enough to cut into the underside of his belly. Even though it was empty, and growling resentfully. They'd been almost too big yesterday, when Dean had wordlessly given them to him. "You brought me too much for lunch, there was stuff in your duffle bag again..." He'd complained about that before he ever got cursed. There was just something about his older brother keeping food right next to his dirty socks and underwear that turned his stomach. "I just don't wanna do any more damage today."

Dean listened to him with a carefully-blank expression on his face, taking in today's weight gain with a critical sweep of his eyes. It was the motion of someone who was used to just glancing at crime scenes and immediately seeing clues that the civilian police had missed, and Sam couldn't help but squirm under it, hating to be scrutinized. He knew that the last twelve hours had expanded his gut and increased his waistline, because his middle seemed to be where all of the extra calories that his body was saving wound up. His face was different, too. His cheeks were much rounder, and he swore he could see the beginnings of a triple chin. And then there were his hands, of course. It was enough to make him want to run away from all of this. His life, his body...goddammit, he'd stayed in perfect shape for two years at Stanford, jogging or lifting off every hint of the "freshmen fifteen," and then he started hunting again and managed to blow up like a freaking blimp.

"Y'know you can't keep torturing yourself like this, right?" Dean said finally, his voice neutral. Sam scowled.

"I'm not 'torturing myself,' Dean," he snapped. "I'd just rather not have a heart attack before this time next week."

Dean sighed through his nose. "Pretty sure that you eating dinner ain't gonna kill you," he said, raising his eyebrows and flashing a tight smile.

"Skipping it won't, either." Sam reached underneath his stomach, hoisting the bulk of it up with a slight gasp. He hadn't known it would be so heavy. If he wasn't locked in a motel room all day, sitting on his plump, cushiony ass, his back would probably hurt. He made sure that Dean couldn't ignore the main feature of what'd happened to him, glaring defiantly and lifting his chin. Chins. He was so tired of this. "I think I've had enough."

"You're miserable all the time -" Dean stated, finally sounding a little angry. Sam let go of the warm, plush weight of his potbelly and cut him off.

"Getting fatter isn't gonna make me feel better." He went to sit on his bed, hating that it creaked under his weight, hating the fact that he felt like a pillow someone had stuffed way too much cotton batting into: swollen. Oversized. Round and bulging from every angle. "If you wanna help me, eat at a restaurant and not here."

That last part came out as little more than a whisper. Dean didn't offer any kind of response, just turned and left, locking the door behind him. Logically, Sam knew he'd won, but it definitely didn't feel like it.

After a while, he started to wonder if Dean hadn't actually, really obeyed his command to eat somewhere that wasn't their motel room. He was definitely taking long enough. Sam sighed, kicking off his boots, because he definitely couldn't reach down and pull them off. Footwear was the only thing he hadn't had to go up about five sizes in, which he knew was a pathetic victory. He considered watching TV, then decided that it wasn't really worth it. He flopped back against the pillows with another sigh, feeling the button on his jeans and the ones on the shirt that he was reluctantly wearing digging into him. He knew that he'd been a complete dick to Dean, too. His brother had been extremely patient with him, despite how hostile Sam had been getting as his frustration and despair mounted, directly tied into his expanding waistline. And Dean was the one doing almost all of the work, too, while Sam just sat here and tried not to think about how unbearably hungry he was. He didn't deserve to be snapped at.

Taking out all of his anger and hurt on his brother (who'd gone looking for him before he even called to tell him that he was in trouble...his mind obviously couldn't stop itself from bringing up Dean's every single positive trait) wasn't going to do either of them any good at all. Sam closed his eyes tightly, and grimaced as he massaged at them with the heels of his hands. His stomach growled, but he ignored that. He'd need to apologize when Dean finally got back. Quickly and quietly, which would repair whatever damage he'd done, but also stick perfectly to Dean's rigid "no-chick-flick-moments" policy.

That flew out of his head when the door opened, and he sat up to see Dean coming in, face expressionless and arms laden with bulging plastic bags.

"What the hell is that?" he demanded, memories of his first few hours with the curse (and Rick) flashing into his head. He started to scramble off the bed - simple movements were a little awkward for him now, because of his new shape, but he was still strong enough to keep them from being too hard. Dean, though, stopped him with a slight-but-decisive jerk of his shoulders. Probably the only body language he could manage with his arms full. Sam sank his teeth into his lower lip as the scent of greasy food hit him.

"Don't freak out, okay?" Dean said quietly, kicking the door shut behind himself and walking forward to deposit every bag in his load on the foot of Sam's bed. Sam pressed himself back against the headboard, as if Dean had dropped a squirming nest of baby nagas in front of him instead of food, trying not to breathe through his nose in an effort to keep the scent out. But he could literally taste it in the air. "Just hear me out. Got it?"

"Dean - don't you know - " Sam demanded shakily, watching his brother spread his hands in a placating gesture. His belly all but snarled.

"No, listen," Dean said firmly, walking over to stand beside him. Close enough to grab one of his wrists in a gesture that was half-soothing and half-restraining. Sam swallowed as he felt callused, bony fingers dig into the fat around that particular joint. There was no way he could eat any of what was in front of him. "You have been miserable since I came and got you, 'cause you're starving, and you won't let yourself eat, and all you can think about is food. I get that you're cursed, believe me." Sam's breathing slowly sped up, his heart hammering pitifully in his chest. He didn't quite understand what his brother was getting at here. "But I can't watch this anymore. It's killing me to see you moping around like you're on a freaking hunger strike, especially when you don't need to be." He must have seen the scowl that suddenly bloomed across Sam's face, because he added, "You could be eating a lot more than you are and it'd be fine. I've seen you train, and the demon who did this to you? We're hot on the sonofabitch's heels. We're gonna break this curse fast, you're gonna lose the weight fast, and everything's gonna be just fine. So..." He glanced down at the bags.

Sam squirmed. The headboard dug into the softness on his back, and he looked over at Dean. "So you're gonna stuff me tonight?" His voice came out bitter, but he honestly didn't mind. "Like the demon did right after he cursed me."

"No. No way." Dean shook his head, lips curling up for a second as if he might smile incredulously, but he never really got there. "I'd never do anything like that, trust me." He squeezed his wrist, and Sam felt oddly comforted by the gesture. They hadn't even gotten close to holding hands since before either of them hit double digits. "I just want you to eat until you're satisfied. Not so full it hurts. Just not hungry anymore. Then I'll get rid of whatever you don't eat - I didn't know how much it'd take - and you can go back to eating like an anorexic supermodel until we catch that demon. If you wanna." Sam didn't answer. He just whimpered a little bit, his hunger having sharpened into actual pain in the presence of so much food. "Can y'do that? That's not gonna hurt, is it?"

Dean's voice was oddly gentle. Sam drew his legs up and folded them, finding himself unable to hold back a tortured groan. He was starving. He needed to eat something, and he was gonna end up doing that in a couple seconds, whether or not he agreed to Dean's plan. Saying yes to him seemed to be the only way to keep any dignity at all. "I...o-okay..." He sounded completely pathetic and knew it, but, hey, he was pathetic.

Dean let go of his wrist and clapped him on the back, reaching for one of the bags in order to dig out a burger. He offered it to Sam, who unwrapped it and tried not to notice the thickness of his fingers as he did so, and didn't seem bothered by the fact that he'd be eating on the bed. He didn't make any effort to get him to move to the table, at least. Sam gave up completely and bit into the burger, reveling in the flavor of beef and cheese and bacon.

At first, he assumed that Dean had just grabbed his own favorite foods while he was out, clueless about what Sam might want. There was a lot of red meat, a lot of chocolate, a lot of sugar and grease and strong flavors. It was only after gorging himself for about twenty minutes, somehow not embarrassed or guilty even with his older brother standing so close to him, he realized he'd gotten stuff that would be immediately filling, so he wouldn't have to eat as much. He might've appreciated the gesture if it had worked, but the curse cared a lot more about quantity than quality. Sam ate just to fill the shrieking, horrific hole inside of him, closing his eyes in order to better savor the taste of everything. As best he could when the food was really only in his mouth for a few seconds. He stuffed himself with whatever Dean handed to him and reached for thing himself, his stomach constantly growling and demanding more.

Dean let him gorge himself, occasionally laying an encouraging hand that he could've done without on his shoulder or back. Sam was so completely lost in the fact that he'd given himself permission to eat, and that there was enough here to satisfy him, that he didn't notice how he was growing. Not even with his brother touching him. His jeans and shirt were getting unbearably tight, riding up. He put it out of his mind for the moment, even though it was getting to be a real problem. Eating was, right now, just a little more important.

He was halfway through a slice of pizza (yeah, Dean had actually gotten pizza - and ice cream, which seemed in danger of melting) when the first button popped off of his shirt. He'd still been chewing with his eyes closed, enraptured, but he opened them when he felt those seams split. He swallowed what was in his mouth, and a second one gave up. When he shifted just a little bit, they all came loose, even the one on his jeans, and spilled his overly-full belly right into his lap. He couldn't help it - he yelped in shock and embarrassment as soon as the ripping sounds had subsided. Dropping what was left of the slice of pizza, he gingerly grabbed his gut, feeling how full it was and its growing softness and, of course, the unbelievable size. His jeans were close to giving up in other places, too, his love handles spilling over their waistband and his ass about to burst through. He reflexively looked up at Dean, who was, of course, staring at his stomach, and felt what was probably the most intense and painful blush he'd ever gone through crash down on him.

Sam was fat. And this curse had turned him into a complete glutton - he'd just eaten so much that he'd ripped his way out of his clothes! Right in front of his big brother. He looked pitiful, with his round belly resting in his lap and so much more food around him...and he was still hungry. Panting, he looked down at himself, and almost gagged. This was so _wrong,_ and he obviously had no real self-control at all if the curse could use him so perfectly, and he was disgusting -

"Hey. Sam." Dean's voice sounded kinder and softer than Sam remembered him being in years. He had his hand on his shoulder again, and Sam could just barely bring himself to look at him. He couldn't make eye contact, but he could look. And Dean didn't seem like he was repulsed, or shocked, or even amused. He was sure that he had to be misinterpreting his expression. "It's okay." He gently lowered himself onto the bed in order to sit pretty close to him, being careful not to jostle his stomach. He had an arm around his shoulders at that point, too, and Sam wished he'd stop touching him.

"It's _not_ - Dean, I can't believe that I - " Sam knew that he was hyperventilating, and that there were tears stinging at the backs of his eyes. Well, it wasn't as if he could possible make this situation any more embarrassing for himself by crying.

"Sam, calm down, okay?" Dean basically commanded. Some part of Sam, still eight years old and perfectly conditioned to obey his big brother's every order, heard and reacted. He didn't cry, and he started breathing more deeply. Now he didn't want to completely panic - he just wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground and never come out. If he could actually manage to cram himself into a hole. "C'mon. I've seen you shake off bites bigger than my head, broken legs, freaking eviscerations. You're not really gonna turn into a girl over _this, _are you?"

Sam, who didn't remember ever having been eviscerated (he'd gotten stomach wounds before, but nothing had ever fallen out of them. At least, not fully), looked over at him. He knew that he had to look completely miserable. Why couldn't Dean just leave him alone? He'd rather nurse his all-but-dead pride and stuffed belly in peace.

"I'm fine," he said, voice little more than a whisper. He didn't want to talk. "Can you...get rid of all of this?" He gestured to the leftover food. There was actually quite a bit, and he didn't want it to end up inside of him.

Sam started when Dean reached over and laid a hand on his stomach. He moved like he'd just barely screwed up the courage for it, and there was something undeniably tense about the way that he held his arm. The calluses of his hand were just barely brushing against the soft skin of Sam's middle at first, and then he was actually touching, feeling just how soft he was and, underneath that, how full. The last thing Sam wanted was to be touched right there while he was like this, but...it felt almost good. Comforting. That dissolved, though, when a growl rippled through him and (he was sure) vibrated against Dean's hand.

"Ah. You're still hungry." Not concerned at all, his brother took his hand off of his stomach and turned to reach for the bags. Sam objected.

"Dean - no!" He pressed himself back against the headboard again, much more forcefully this time. "I really don't need anything else." He did, though. There was still room inside of him, begging to be filled, and he was hungry.

And he was sure that Dean somehow knew that, because he gave him a weary, exasperated look, digging into one of the still-full bags despite his protests. "Cut it out," he said firmly. "You obviously need this. Doing it once isn't gonna kill you...and we're gonna fix everything in the next couple of days." He pulled his arm from around Sam's shoulders and grabbed one of them firmly with his hand, making unapologetic eye contact. He looked...determined, incredibly so, like he'd been stressing over something for awhile now and had finally made up his mind to do something. "What're you so afraid of?"

Dean had pulled a cookie out of the bag, chocolate chip. Sam could smell it. It'd come from a package, and he had no idea why hell Dean'd bought cookies, but he wanted it. Sweet, soft, rich...he swallowed, and did his best to _focus._

"This isn't healthy," he tried to argue. The air in the room felt warm against his exposed stomach, and Dean's hand was warm on his shoulder. "I...I hate being like this - I'm sickening."

He was shaking a little bit, belly and love handles and everything else jiggling with the force of his discomfort. It wasn't like Dean hadn't been able to tell how he felt before now - no, not even how he felt, how he _was._ But now he'd admitted it, and he wasn't sure how that made him feel. Or what was going to happen now. He hoped Dean would just go.

That didn't happen, unfortunately. Instead, kneeling beside and slightly in front of Sam, Dean offered the cookie to him. He squeezed his shoulder as he ate right out of his hand, the gesture reassuring and accepting. Sam shut his eyes tightly and kept them like that. He couldn't believe that he was already so full that his stomach, unable to be contained by his clothes, was resting in his lap, and Dean was actually feeding him more. Like he was a child or a pet that he was indulging.

He didn't quite understand when Dean cupped the soft, rounded side of his face, his rough hand gritty with cookie crumbs. But he got it when full lips pressed against his. He'd never kissed his brother on the mouth, afraid of being called gay or, to a lesser extent, being accused of incest. And this was definitely incest - there was nothing at all brotherly about this kiss. Dean was gently guiding his mouth open, slipping his tongue in, tasting him. He moved his hand from Sam's shoulder and held the back of his head instead, keeping him steady.

Sam knew he should have ripped himself away the second that Dean's mouth brushed against his. And told him that kissing and fondling and being this close was definitely not okay - partially because he could feel the prominent ridge of Dean's hip pressing into the plush swell of his belly and didn't need the reminder of what he'd lost. But he didn't move at all. Dean was being so incredibly careful, kissing him like he was a shy girl, but Sam had been with enough people to read pure desire in all his gentle little movements.

Sam had enough problems without adding a sexual relationship with his brother to the list. He hunted monsters. His father was missing. His girlfriend was dead. He was overweight and getting more so with every bite he ate. But having his lips locked to Dean's made him feel wanted, worshiped, and like he was still worth something. He'd been craving that for a long, long time. And the craving was all but satisfied when Dean pulled back, gave him a steady look, and matter-of-factly said, "No, you're not."

Stroking the hair that curled at the back of Sam's head, he moved his other hand from his face to his belly. He rubbed in slow, fascinated circles, massaging the whole of it bit by bit. Sam couldn't hold back a small, low sound of pleasure.

"I gotta say, I think you're perfect like this," Dean told him quietly. "You're so soft. You're adorable. I love seeing you full." He pressed a quick kiss to his little brother's temple, a temporary point of contact that Sam just had to lean into. Dean didn't mind him fat. Dean loved him. It sent a childish, warm sort of thrill through him, to know that. "Of course, I think you're perfect the other way, too. I guess I don't really care how much you weigh." When Sam shifted a little bit, grabbing onto his shoulder and pushing his bloated stomach a little more firmly into his hand, he smiled widely at him. "I think I just wanna be with you, Sammy. And, trust me, I know how screwed up that is, and I know siblings shouldn't do..._that,_ but it's not like we can have a baby or anything." He looked at him, and finished up with, "I think this'd be good for us. At least for a little while. At least 'til all this curse crap has been sorted out."

Sam looked at him with wide, vulnerable eyes, trying to sort through everything he was feeling right now. Everything that he wanted. So, he was cursed. But it didn't do anything to his heart (in the emotional sense, at least) or his sex drive. It must be entirely his fault, then, that he wanted Dean to kiss him again, and touch him, and...feed him. There was something undeniably intimate about that. And he had needed this so desperately, even before being cursed: for someone to want him, to have a relationship that wouldn't end abruptly with death or departure or rejection based on who he was, and to have the support and positive attention of his brother. On a very basic level, yeah, this was a really good thing.

"You okay?" Dean asked, his voice low. He was still rubbing his belly, and the fingers of his other hand were tangled in Sam's thick, dark hair. They were close enough to kiss again, but Sam just nodded in response to his question. "No. I mean...are you okay with _this?"_

Sam hadn't initiated a kiss or a touch or anything at all since he'd left Jess for the last time, months ago. He just hadn't had the desire, being both painfully monogamous and in mourning. That wasn't really something you ever forgot how to do, though. So he leaned forward, the movement awkward and slow because of his stomach, and pressed himself against Dean. At first, it was just a forehead touch. By the time he got around to actually kissing him, hesitant and unsure of himself, both of his brother's hands were on his stomach. Dean rubbed and fondled and squeezed as Sam got more and more confident, shifting to give them both a better angle, pulling him closer. His attention moved to Sam's ample love handles, then his ass, kneading the fat in a way that was eager and almost reverent. Sam pulled back for a second, gasping like a fish out of water.

"I'm okay with it," he said. "But I'm losing the weight the second we break this curse."

Dean nuzzled against his neck, gently nipped at his second chin. His hands were still extremely busy. "Mm. Too bad. 'Cause I _really_ love it, and you look great as a little butterball - "

"Dean." Sam put his hands on his brother's shoulders, pushing him back and forcing him to make eye contact. "C'mon, I mean it. I can't hunt like this."

For a second, he thought Dean was going to argue, but, instead, he just nodded. "It's your body. You can do whatever you want and I'll be fine with it." His hands were back on Sam's love handles. Not massaging, this time; just holding. The look that he was giving him said that he could go right ahead and slim down once he was no longer cursed, but until then, Dean would make sure that he couldn't possibly be embarrassed about the extra pounds. "Are you still hungry?"

Sam thought for sure that he'd blush when he quietly admitted that he was, but somehow, he didn't.

He ate, his belly growing under Dean's diligent care, and didn't hate himself for it. He was fed, kissed, and practically cooed over, Dean stroking his hair or patting his stomach with every bite he took. He hadn't had any idea at all that he could be like this. Eating a carton of half-melted ice cream earned him a long and in-depth belly rub, and several more burgers led to a rain of kisses all over his middle. Dean eased him back into a more comfortable position after while, offered doughnuts, and assured him, every step of the way, that he was gorgeous. That he had nothing at all to be ashamed of. That his expanding gut was the absolute sexiest thing he'd ever seen. Sam snuggled up against his brother's hard, fit body, didn't make any attempt at all to hold back the happy noises that were being drawn out of him, and ate until his stomach had stopped growling. Dean cleared all the debris and leftovers away after that, and was back to help Sam out of his clothes before self-doubt could even begin to set in.

Sam winced when he got back onto the bed and it creaked alarmingly. Dean completely ignored the sound and settled right beside him. Sam looked uneasily at his belly, swollen to a huge size. Dean put a hand on it and rubbed affectionately. Sam was half-afraid to go to sleep, with the knowledge that he'd wake up so much bigger. Dean kissed a trail down his neck and convinced him to close his eyes, because he was right there, and he wouldn't let anything happen to him.

"Bet you anything this ends tomorrow," he murmured to him. "After today, I know where to go. I'm gonna find this son of a bitch demon, break the curse, and send his ass back to Hell. You're gonna be fine. I promise."

* * *

Dean woke up with all four limbs wrapped protectively around the bundle of warm, perfect softness that was Sam, his face buried in the curly part of his hair and a contented purr at the ready in his throat. He slowly disentangled himself from his still-sleeping brother, which took awhile, since he gave every fold of fat he encountered the attention that it deserved. He was finally allowed to touch and enjoy the pudge that wreathed Sam's lean form, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to take advantage of that.

Sam was a little bigger this morning, and there was a tiny bit more give to him. Dean guessed that he'd put on maybe fifty pounds from last night, and that it looked awesome on him. Rounding out his belly and ass a bit more, making him wider in the hips, adding to the jiggling thickness of his arms and legs...Dean could look his fill without arousing suspicion, and not just because Sam was asleep. He'd made up his mind last night, taken a chance, and it'd paid off way more than he'd ever expected it to. He counted the fact that Sam had eaten his fill and moaned happily while Dean worshiped his growing belly as a definite victory.

Sam came to while Dean was completely occupied with his love handles. He looked incredibly nervous, vulnerable, uncomfortable about his body, until he was kissed, hugged, and guided out of bed. Dean didn't mind reassuring him in the slightest. He left him in the shower for about twenty minutes, getting new jeans and T-shirts that he hoped would fit, and they were ready to hit the road in no time at all.

Sam had toast for breakfast. Whole wheat. Two slices. No butter. Dean hated that, and would so much rather see him sated and happy than whimpering with hunger, but, like he'd said, it was his body. And he wouldn't have to starve himself for much longer.

Dean was eager to get on the road and track the demon down, but to do that, he had to get Sam into the Impala. And that turned out to be a problem. He couldn't honestly be called "chubby" anymore - he was fat. Maybe even obese. It was tough for him to squeeze himself in through the passenger door, his new size and shape made movement awkward, and wedging his (almost entirely empty) belly in next to the dashboard took about fifteen minutes. He barely fit. And Dean swore that the car dipped slightly on his side. That was pretty much the first time he decided that he didn't want Sam getting any bigger; a few more pounds would mean that the Impala wasn't even an option for him, and traveling without his little brother riding shotgun wasn't even an option for Dean.

"I feel like I'm in a freaking corset," Sam wheezed as Dean got in. "I knew I shouldn't've eaten last night."

"Don't start." Dean turned the keys in the ignition, and didn't ask what a corset was. "We don't have far to go."

Two hours later, Sam was safely locked in a motel room in the next town over. Dean had tried to kiss him before leaving, and had been brushed off. He wasn't sure if he was moving too fast, or if Sam didn't want to be touched until he was no longer cursed, or what. All he knew was that Sam looked miserable and lost, and the solution that he'd come up with didn't work anymore. So he left to do the only thing he could.

He knew where to go. He knew what to do. He was gonna break this curse once and for all.

* * *

Dean had been gone for an hour when Sam heard a key scraping in the lock.

He'd been curled up on one of the two beds, nursing hunger that he was positive was going to drive him insane and trying not to focus on how massive he felt. Immediately, though, he sat up, entire body jiggling with the movement, and stared at the door. There were plenty of weapons nearby, of course, but there was no way he could defend himself in this condition. If he even needed defending. Just in case (and because his father - well, really more Dean, when he thought about it - hadn't raised him to be a quitter), though, he clenched his plump hands into fists. There was a gun under one of his pillows, knives in the drawers of the nightstand, and plenty more weaponry in his nearby backpack. He struggled off of the bed, and stood. It was way too difficult, but it made him feel better.

The door swung open, and Sam relaxed with a nearly-silent sigh when he saw what was on the other side. A man in his thirties, gray-streaked auburn hair pulled back into a very short ponytail and narrow-hipped body clad in some modern version of an old-fashioned janitor's uniform, trudged into the room. He was pulling a towel-draped cart, presumably carrying cleaning supplies, after him. There was a dull, exhausted look on his face, and it was several seconds before he actually noticed Sam. He was a little surprised by that, considering his current girth.

"Oh." When the man's eyes finally did happen to fall on him, he winced apologetically. "I'm sorry - I saw the guy who checked in leave. I thought this room was empty right now."

"No, no, you're fine." Sam lowered himself back onto the bed, satisfied that he wasn't going to have to fight. As the adrenaline wore off, though, something else replaced it. Why the hell had he relaxed? It wasn't like he was a lanky one-eighty anymore, and self-confidence he hadn't even known he had had gone right out the window with that frame. He hadn't been in the company of anyone but Dean for several days (and Dean, obviously, liked it; patches of his belly suddenly burned with remembered kisses), and he was absolutely positive that any look, or comment about his weight, or flash of embarrassment as someone realized just how big he was, would break him. He fidgeted, heroically fighting back a blush, and hoped that this guy would leave before any of that could happen.

He didn't. Instead, he nudged the door shut with one comfortable-looking shoe, and gave Sam a smile that was completely free of judgment. He swore that, suddenly, he could smell something sweet. Some kind of pastry. His stomach growled mournfully, and he raked his hand through his shaggy hair, praying that the man hadn't heard.

"Are you two..." Apparently, he hadn't. Thank God. "...partners?"

The tentative way that he asked it made it clear that he didn't mean the word in the police officer or FBI agent sense. Sam blinked. This most definitely wasn't the first time that someone had mistaken him and Dean for a gay couple, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Protesting that no, they were actually brothers tended to work, but for some reason, Sam hesitated. He remembered Dean's hands running tenderly all over his body, Dean's mouth on his, Dean's shockingly-kind words...and he was saying, "Yeah," a slight smile on his face, before he could even think about it.

The guy's eyebrows rose a little. "Really?" he asked slowly, taking a few steps closer to him. Sam assumed that he meant to make the bed (even though it hadn't been slept in), and stood. "You're lovers?" He shook his head, suddenly seeming disappointed. "That's _disgusting, _Samuel. He's your brother."

The weight gain hadn't slowed Sam's mind at all - only his movements. It took less than a second for the realization to hit him, but just a little too long to reach the flask of holy water that was still in his backpack. With a flick of the man's hand, he was held immobile on the bed, sitting down and glaring at him with hateful eyes.

"Rick." He all but spat the name.

"Hmm...no..." He made a show of looking down and examining the name tag pinned to the front of his uniform. "Looks like I'm Eddie, right now." He looked up and grinned at Sam, eyes gone black. "Oh, Samuel, you're _adorable! _ Just look at how fat you've gotten." There were hands on his stomach and he couldn't do anything about it, squeezing and pinching with calluses and rough fingernails. Like a parody of Dean's. "Been stuffing yourself to the gills every day, huh? Attaboy. I'm so proud of you."

"Don't touch me," Sam snarled, struggling vainly against what was obviously a psychic hold.

"You're not in any position to be ordering me around," Rick pointed out. Sam glared, wishing more than anything that looks could kill, and opened his mouth to growl something out. But he found himself completely mute, all of a sudden. "I have plenty of fun tricks. I didn't use them before, but I really think you deserve them now." A hand cupped him under the chins, fondling both of them as the demon raised his head until he could make eye contact with him. "You're a perfect pet, Samuel. So far along already - I can hardly believe it. You're exceptional...but, then, I imagine that your brother's been feeding you nonstop." He smiled, and added, "Or do you call Dean your 'lover' now?"

Sam was blushing. He really didn't want to, but he knew that the round swells that had replaced his cheekbones would be a delicate pink, and that it would deepen to red before much longer. He avoided Rick's eyes, swallowing hard and making a valiant effort to cool the heat that was rising in his face. He never should've admitted to what had started happening between he and Dean. Hell, he never should've let someone he didn't know into the motel room! His mind went to his older brother, praying that he would be back soon. Unless Rick slipped up, Dean seemed to be his only way out of this.

Rick moved around him, pressing his hands to his chest, his thighs, his back...his ass. Sam gritted his teeth as he made soft, approving little cooing noises. When he was done examining him where he was sitting on the bed, he ran his fingers through his hair almost lovingly and smiled.

_"Very_ well taken care of," he murmured. "I suppose Dean couldn't stand to see his precious baby brother starving. Or maybe he just wants you as fat and spoiled as possible, adorable and lazy with plenty of soft rolls for him to play with." He reached back down to caress Sam's huge belly. "Does he fuck you while you're eating?"

Sam hissed through gritted teeth. It was the only sound he seemed to be able to make.

"Oh, don't worry, incest is just fine." Rick patted his gut. "As long as he keeps you nice and full...I've done research on you two, you know, and I honestly wouldn't be surprised if you were craving your big brother's cock years before this. And, of course, he'll bed anything with a pulse, which works in your favor."

He smirked at Sam's expression. He wasn't sure what it was, but it obviously made the demon happy. He had never wanted Dean before this. _Never,_ he told himself firmly. Their relationship now...he wasn't even sure there was actual sex in the future. And Dean wasn't some sort of slut.

"But you're empty right now, aren't you?" Rick poked him in the belly. "Poor Sammy. Dean didn't do his job. You must be starving." When he shifted his weight, Sam caught that pastry scent again. Sweet and rich. "It's a good thing I'm here to take care of you."

Sam tried to force himself free of whatever was holding him, throwing every ounce of willpower in his body into standing. Or regaining control of his arms. Or even yelling - anything at all to disrupt what was going on here. But he couldn't so much as whimper when Rick began to lift towels off of the cart that he'd come in with and, predictably, there were no cleaning supplies. Only cakes, doughnuts, muffins...pretty much every sweet thing he could think of, all looking like they'd come directly from a bakery. There wouldn't be any prepackaged sponge cakes this time around.

"Where is your brother, anyway?" Rick practically crooned, pushing the tip of a slice of cake into Sam's mouth after retrieving it from the cart. He had to eat. Chewing and swallowing, he closed his eyes, practically stunned by the rich taste and thick icing. He was about to pass out from hunger, and it was so good. "Hunting me? Trying to break the curse on you? Yeah, that's it, eat. We need to fill this belly up...you've gotten pretty big, haven't you?" Sam swallowed the last of the slice, eyes still firmly closed. While he still could, he kept struggling, though he was positive that none of his efforts ever actually reached the physical level. "I really doubt that's actually what he's doing. Maybe Dean's just trying to comfort you. Being a good brother...by your screwed up standards. And maybe he's finally sick of watching you gorge yourself and then blow up minutes later."

More cake. Sam wasn't paying attention, just trying to block everything out right now. He'd always been a fighter, perfectly stubborn and never willing to give up. Well, almost never. Right now, he was completely helpless, and incapable of fighting. His last-ditch effort was to withdraw, and wait. Inside, he was crying out for Dean, his internal voice plaintive and broken, and he was glad he couldn't speak. Couldn't get any more sorry than he already was.

"And if he actually likes this?" Rick continued, feeding him steadily. Sam felt a finger sink into the softness of his belly, poking appreciatively. "If your Dean is some sort of chubby chaser? If he's really in love with this beautiful belly and that cushiony ass and all your chins? He's not looking to break my curse. All he wants is to get you bigger, to feed you and watch you grow. If he were here right now, Samuel, he'd probably shake my hand, for giving him exactly what he wanted. And then he'd help me stuff you...so don't expect any miracles, pet."

Despite his best efforts to resist the taunts, that one reached Sam. He couldn't speak and he couldn't pull away, but he could stubbornly shake his head - at least until Rick grabbed his chins with a noise of amused exasperation and stuffed a still-warm doughnut into his mouth. Okay, so, maybe he'd only been back on the road with Dean for a few months. And maybe he'd been a complete pain in the ass during that time: sulking, picking fights, once actually trying to kill him (though, in his defense, that hadn't been entirely his fault). But they were still brothers. Dean had fought for him for nearly twenty years, and Sam had all but worshiped him for it. And he'd needed him last night, desperately, and Dean had met his every insecurity with a reassuring kiss. He couldn't believe that all of that was only because Dean was interested in using him like some sort of sex toy.

Sam believed he was loved. Even as he was right now. Obviously, a demon couldn't understand anything like that, except to take advantage of it. Glaring, trembling with hate but no longer any fear, he ate.

"He'll be happy when he comes home to you," Rick noted. Feeling Sam's stomach, which was already bulging with everything he'd been fed already, and straining against his clothes, he nodded in approval. He pushed at it, finding the firm and heavy shape under the plentiful rolls of softness. "Like a present...maybe I should put a bow on you. A completely-sated Samuel for Dean, sleepy with fullness, stuffed with treats. Getting fatter as he watches." Rick cupped the back of his head, a redundant gesture meant to hold him in place, and almost tenderly tucked a cookie into his mouth. White chocolate chip and macadamia nut, warm; he'd prepared for this. "D'you think he'll stop hunting me if I leave that for him as a peace offering?"

Sam swallowed, belly beginning to ache in a way that (much to his horror) almost felt pleasant, and was unable to stifle a burp. Rick smiled at him, massaging his middle with one hand. It was impossible to tell where his eyes were focused, without pupils.

"Try to enjoy this," he said gently. Sam couldn't help wondering if something in the vessel was influencing the demon, since this wasn't nearly as rough as last time had been. He continued in a soft voice, "That svelte little hunter is completely gone. But you're gonna be taken care of, and you're going to love it - growing bigger and bigger, getting as much to eat as you can hold, being completely showered with affection by your brother - I honestly wanna meet him. And I'll be dropping by, too, to check on your progress. I want to see you content, Samuel, and lazy, and happy with what I've done for you."

Even if Sam hadn't been forcibly silenced, he wouldn't have been able to speak. His mouth was crammed full of cake again, Rick holding more at the ready, and his stomach was round and taut with it. His clothes, comfortably loose that morning, were digging viciously into him, about ready to tear. After swallowing, he barely had time to hiccup before he was fed more.

"Getting full?...good." Stuffing Sam with one hand, Rick used his other to take hold of one of his plush love handles. A warm, curving swell of fat that had replaced his hip. Tugging at it, he nodded in approval. "Coming along great, Samuel. Of course, you can definitely fit more."

Fingertips pressed against Sam's full mouth, Rick glanced back at the cart he'd brought in, which was embarrassingly depleted. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed a silent moan, and gritted his teeth when the demon leaned in to speak to him.

"You are mine," Rick all but breathed in his ear, repeating what he'd said the first time this had happened. "Massive, gluttonous, spoiled. Nothing more than something to be fed, coddled, and fattened. Don't try to fool yourself, and don't forget." He straightened up. "I bet you're thirsty, so I have - "

He paused, suddenly, cutting himself off. Sam reluctantly opened his eyes, to see a perplexed, almost pained expression on the face of the demon's meat suit. His control didn't slip, so Sam still couldn't speak, but he could definitely grin, teeth webbed with chocolate icing. It couldn't have been all that intimidating, but the demon looked somehow unnerved.

And then Sam's tongue was free.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked. He was panting, but still grinning savagely. He didn't know what had happened, but it had obviously done something to Rick, and he was viciously grateful for that.

"I should've kept you." He snarled it out, hands clenched into fists. "You were perfect. I never should've left you for just anyone to find - especially not _him._" It didn't take Sam long at all to realize that he was talking about Dean. He felt a burst of pride, knowing that he must have accomplished something pretty significant to piss the demon off so badly. "I never should've left the carving alone. Hundreds of years old, crafted by Gluttony himself, _burned - "_

Rick's tirade continued, but Sam barely heard him, his breath catching in his throat. Dean had burned the figure. Purified it. Gotten rid of the curse. He could all but smell smoke, see flames, feel his brother clapping him on the back in celebration of another job well done. Or maybe pulling him into a fierce hug, considering the brand-new nature of their relationship.

He swore he felt lighter.

Though that may have been because the control over him had finally snapped completely.

Rick didn't see the holy water until he was doused with it, shrieking, and a few words of an exorcism ritual sent black smoke streaming out of a very-confused vessel. He didn't seem aware of where he was, or what had happened, and Sam felt obligated to help him back to the front desk. Cart in tow, with all the extra food thrown into the nearest Dumpster with no regrets at all.

When he got back to his and Dean's room, he had to hold his jeans up to keep them from falling down.

* * *

Dean parked outside of the motel an hour and a half after burning the artifact he'd found in the demon's empty hideout. He'd taken every single precaution to break the curse on it and to avoid picking it up himself, then he'd decided to scoop up the ashes and toss them into a river. It couldn't hurt to let running water disrupt whatever magic remained. But it'd taken him a disproportionately-long amount of time to find a stretch of river where he could actually throw something in without getting yelled at, or having it wash back up onto the garbage-strewn shore. He just hoped Sam was okay.

Unlocking the door and walking inside, he found his little brother...well, _little_ again, and asleep in what he at first thought was a pile of blankets. After a closer look, he realized that they were the clothes he'd gotten for him, now huge on that long-legged frame of his.

Dean wanted nothing more than to lay down next to him, wake him up by pulling him into his arms, and then help him out of those ridiculous clothes. But he hesitated in the doorway. He remembered how Sam had been practically crying the first time he'd kissed him, how desperate he'd seemed for any sort of comfort at all. He'd needed it then. Whatever "it" could be defined as...extra affection, Dean's interest, incest. But he might now now. In fact, he probably didn't. And a supply was useless without a demand.

After a few minutes, Sam, who had always been a heavy sleeper, stirred. When he sat up, it pulled the red fabric of the massive T-shirt tight across his upper body, revealing a chest and belly that were still slightly chubby. Which really wasn't all that unrealistic, considering the way he'd been eating lately. Dean didn't really notice that. He was focused completely on the look that Sam was giving him. Relieved; overjoyed to see him but still somehow guarded; conveying a vulnerable, heartbreaking question of "do-you-still-love-me."

He still needed it.

Dean had Sam wrapped in a bear hug within seconds, laughing at the sight of him finally grinning again, assuring him that it was over and they were fine again and again until he was sure he believed it. Just in case Sam was too clueless to pick up on what they still had, he followed that up with a kiss. A long, lingering one that was returned with no hesitation.

When he finally let him talk, Sam's first words were, "I love you." Breathless, giddy. The second ones were, "I'm starving."

Dean grinned from ear to ear. "Well...let's get you fed, then, Sammy."


End file.
